


Common Courtesy

by Queen_Lightning



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Smut, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-02-10 07:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 132,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18655864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Lightning/pseuds/Queen_Lightning
Summary: You are a detective with the 16th precinct with the NYPD.Dedicated to your work, you try to bury your feelings for a certain ADA, but when a tough case brings the two of you together, everything changes.





	1. Chapter 1

The 16th precinct was in chaos.  The Special Victims Unit was never really known for being an oasis of calm, but Manhattan was being terrorized by a series of brutal rapes, and One PP was putting pressure on your squad.  Captain Cragan tried to shelter his detectives from the worst of it, but the constant parade of brass in and out of his office made it apparent – solve the case quick or plan on being a mall cop for the rest of your days.

“That’s the third time the Commissioner’s been here this week,” your partner, Nick Amaro complained.  You looked up from your laptop screen and gave him a tight smile before returning to your work.  You were digging through the latest victim’s computer activity – social media, emails.  You had been working steadily, trying to build a victimology to help hone in on what the women had in common.

The first and second victims had been sex workers.  The third was a banking manager.  The fourth was a middle school teacher, and the fifth had been a homeless addict. The sixth, and most recent, was a college student from Hudson University.  While she recovered in the hospital from the brutal attack, you sat at your desk, poring over her social media.  You scrolled through her posts – normal, college-aged girl stuff like selfies and check-ins at bars and clubs around the city.  Your eyes were starting to glaze over when something caught your eye.  You gasped.

“You got something?” Nick asked.  He got up and stood behind you, looking over your shoulder.

“Maybe,” you murmured. You pointed to your computer screen. “The latest vic had a status update that mentioned volunteering at a low-cost clinic.”  You reached for your notebook and flipped it open, rifling through the pages of notes until you found what you were looking for.  First and second vics were occasional patients there. The homeless vic was too.”

Nick furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t explain the other victims though.”

You shook your head.  “No, but there might be a link there if we dig a bit.  We need more information.”

“A clinic like that won’t just turn over their patient records because we asked,” Nick said.

You snapped your notebook shut, then stood up and grabbed your coat.  “Nope, but I know a guy we can ask,” you replied with a grin.  You knew how much your partner clashed with your ADA.  “Want to come with me?”

Nick rolled his eyes and groaned.  He walked back to his desk and grabbed his jacket.  “What are partners for?”

 

Carmen stood up to greet you as you and Nick strode into the reception area.  “He’s in a mood today,” she stage-whispered to you.  “But go on in.”

You smiled at her, then gave the door a light rap with your knuckles.  “Let me do the talking,” you said to your partner under your breath.  You opened the door and walked into the room, Nick close on your heels.

ADA Rafael Barba was sitting at his desk, and he looked up as you and Nick walked in.  “Detectives,” he said by way of greeting.  You could practically hear him clenching his jaw and gearing up for a fight with Nick.

“Hello, Barba,” you replied. “How was your weekend?”

He cocked an eyebrow at you, and the furrows on his brow smoothed out.  “It was…fine.”  He hesitated for a moment.  “How was yours?”

Nick cleared his throat, then cut you off with an abrupt gesture.  “Let’s skip the chit-chat,” he said.  “We need a warrant.”

Barba instantly bristled, his jaw tightening again.  You put a calming hand on Nick’s shoulder, then gave the ADA the details:  the victims who crossed paths at the clinic, and your hunch that it might be something.  You may be the youngest and newest SVU detective, but you had worked with Barba enough to know how he like his information laid out in clear order. Your teammates thought he was unreasonable, but you knew he just wanted to understand which lines of inquiry his detectives were going down.  By the time you were done explaining your thinking, he was working on your warrant. 

“It’ll take about an hour,” he said after he hung up his phone.  “Judge Barth is sending one over.”

“Y/L/N, you can wait here for it,” Nick said.  “I’ll got back to the precinct and fill the Captain in.”  You nodded, then watched your partner leave the office.  

“I’ll go wait out with Carmen,” you said, starting to rise from your seat.  “I don’t want to bother you.”

Barba cleared his throat. “It’s no bother,” he said, gruffly. “Let me just finish this brief.”  He turned his attention back to his work, and you pretended to read your emails on your phone.

You watched him surreptitiously, your head down facing your phone but your eyes peering up at him.  You had a bit of a crush on him, of course. He was smart and brash and handsome, and his suits were tailored within an inch of their lives.  After you worked with him a bit though, you saw the other sides of him:  the tireless fighter for the victim, the believer in law and justice.  And, you thought, a man who was perhaps a bit unappreciated.

“There,” he said.  “Done.”  He looked up at you and gifted you with a small smile.  “The warrant should be here soon.  I’m sorry you’re wasting your time.”

You scoffed and waved his comment away with a flap of your hand.  “It’s not a waste.  Besides, it gets me out of the precinct.  Things are a bit…tense, right now.”  You sighed, then ran your hand through your hair.  “This monster is out here, ruining lives, and we just keep spinning our wheels. Everyone’s frustrated and tired and it feels like we’ll never catch him.”

“I can imagine.”  He shrugged out of his suit jacket, revealing the waist coat underneath.  You were a sucker for a man in a three-piece suit.  The ADA unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. You shifted in your seat uncomfortably, struggling to keep your cheeks from blushing.  You were a sucker for forearms too, and Barba had particularly nice arms and hands.  You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about his hands in your more lonesome moments. You looked up and saw him looking at you, his deep green eyes boring into yours.  You felt a flush creeping up your neck and broke your gaze from his.

You were saved by a knock at the door.  Carmen came into the room and handed Barba an envelope.  “This just came by courier,” she said.  He nodded at her and she left the room.

Barba pulled the papers out of the envelope and looked them over.  Once he was satisfied, he slid them back in and stood up.  He walked around his desk, and you stood up too.

“Here’s your warrant, Detective,” he said, handing you the envelope.  You reached for it, but he held it fast for a moment so that both of you had your hands on it.  You looked up – his green eyes were staring at you again, but this time, you held his gaze and stared back.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.  He reached up with his free hand, tentative for a moment, then patted your shoulder awkwardly.  “You’ll get him.  SVU has their best person on the case.”  He released the warrant and shoved both hands into his pockets.  “And I mean you,” he said with a smirk.  “Not Amaro.”

You laughed, trying to ignore your burning face.  You grew serious and held the warrant up.  “Thank you for this,” you said.  He nodded, and you turned on your heel, jogging out of the office and then sprinting to the elevators.  If you hurried, you could get Amaro and go to the clinic before it closed.

* * *

Barba watched you hurry from his office.  He stood for a moment, lingering in the space you just left:  he could still smell the faint scent of your perfume, and you always electrified the room, so he could practically imagine the bit of charge you left behind.  He sighed and went back to his desk.  

He tried to focus on his pile of work, but his mind kept drifting to you.  You were too young for him, obviously – some girl wonder who had trained at the FBI and found a home at SVU.  But your age didn’t stop him from imagining what it’d be like to know you better.  You were smart – a genius, he heard – but you were kind too.  He’d watched you interview enough victims to know that you genuinely cared about them.  And you were funny.  You always managed to make the team smile with your jokes, and you could read the room when things got too tense.  

He leaned back in his chair. You were incredibly attractive to him too.  Your hair, your eyes.  Your standard uniform of jeans, boots, and blazer might be boring to some, but it intrigued him.  You wore the same thing, or some minor variation, every day.  He wondered what you wore in your off hours, what you wore to bed.  He frowned, wondering who you spent your time with in your off hours, who you shared your bed with.  You obviously had someone in your life.  A woman like you wouldn’t be single long.  Probably a man like Amaro, younger and in better shape than him.  Barba grumbled, then shuffled his papers on his desk.

But he could have sworn that he saw you watching him work while you waited for the warrant.  And when he had made eye contact with you, you had squirmed and turned red.  What had you been thinking?  Was it possible that you thought of him sometimes?

Barba shook his head. Of course not, he admonished himself. You were just being nice to him because he could get you the warrant, and you were squirming because you were anxious to go catch a serial rapist.  

But it was nice to dream sometimes.


	2. Chapter 2

You were pissed. Beyond pissed, actually. Angry.  You listened to the voice at the other end of the phone, then slammed the receiver down.  “Fuck!” you yelled.  Luckily, the bullpen was mostly empty – it was Friday evening, and most of the support personnel were off having personal lives.  Not that you knew what that was like.  It was just you, Nick, and Liv, grinding through the evidence again and again. 

“You okay?” asked Amaro from his desk.  He half rose from his chair, but you stood up and gave him a warning glance.

“Just give me a minute,” you muttered as you marched out of the room.  You went to the stairwell, then took the stairs two at a time until you were on the records floor.  You didn’t have any reason to go there, but it’s where you hid when you needed a moment alone.  Sometimes you hated working at SVU.  Today was one of those days.

Victim number two, a sex worker named Sarah, had died.  The hospital had called you to let you know, and it hit you like a sucker punch.  You had just visited her earlier that day and she seemed to be turning a corner, health-wise.  She even seemed cheerful, at times.  And now?  Gone, just like that.  Because some animal had bashed her brain in after he brutally raped her.

You clenched your fists and unclenched them, taking deep breaths and trying to bring your temper under control.  You tilted your head back so that the tears that threatened to fall didn’t ruin your mascara.  You were so close to catching the guy – you could feel it in your gut.  Not close enough though.  Not enough to save Sarah.

You went back downstairs to your desk once you calmed down.  You gave Amaro a sad smile, then explained what had happened.  He listened, sympathetic, but you caught him glancing at his watch.

“Get out of here,” you said gently.  “Go see your daughter.”

He scrubbed his hands across his face in exhaustion.  “You sure?”

You shooed him off.  “I’m not staying much longer.  Just want to check a few more things.”  

You watched him shut down his computer and you waved goodbye as he walked to the elevator.  Then you got back to work.

You were so engrossed in your case files that you didn’t even notice the footsteps in the hallway as they made their way to your desk.

“Detective,” he said.

You jumped with a shriek. “Jesus!” you yelled.  You turned around and looked straight into the emerald green eyes of the smirking ADA.  

“Not Jesus,” he replied. “Just me.”  He looked around the deserted bullpen.  “Liv gone already?”

You narrowed your eyes. You liked Liv a lot – she was like a big sister to you, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t jealous of her. She was gorgeous and smart and had an impressive career, so you understood why Barba and she had become such fast friends.  But you still felt little nettles of envy every time you saw them together, drinking at Forlini’s or laughing outside the courthouse.

You glanced over at Liv’s desk.  “Her stuff’s still here,” you mumbled.  You turned your eyes back on the file in front of you, pretending to work.  Liv walked into the bullpen from the break room, a can of soda in her hand.  She and Barba greeted each other, and they headed towards her desk, chattering away. You rolled your eyes and kept re-reading the same few lines on the police report in an attempt to focus.

In reality, you were trying to eavesdrop on Liv and Barba.  It was hard to make out what they were saying, but every now and then, their conversation was punctuated by a laugh from one or the other, and you felt your stomach churn with jealousy.  Of course Barba would go for a woman like Liv – she was closer to him in age, she was beautiful and confident.  Not a stuttering idiot like you were.  The only time you felt confident around the ADA was when you were talking about a case.  You wished you could laugh with him like Liv did.

Your thoughts were cut short by the whine of a vacuum cleaner.  The custodian made his way through the bullpen, sweeping under desks and emptying trash cans.  You watched him – and then a thought occurred to you.  

Suddenly the pieces started to fall into place.  You tore through the stack of file folders, looking for the information you had scanned past a million times.  “ _Shit_ ,” you whispered.  You shoved away from your desk, your chair scraping loudly.  You grabbed your coat and jammed your arms into it.  You threw your messenger bag over your shoulder and sprinted out of the bullpen.  The clinic you had investigated was open late on Fridays.  You could check it now, and if your hunch was right…. maybe catch the monster who was stalking Manhattan.

* * *

“Should you go with her?” Barba asked Liv as they watched you leave.  “As backup or whatever?”

Liv shook her head.  “No, she’s got it.  She’s like a bloodhound – she’ll come back when she has something. And she’s too smart to go sprinting into danger alone.”  She smiled at the counselor’s concern.  Since they became friends, Barba always managed to bring you up in conversation. He probably thought he was being casual, but Liv saw right through his charade.  She was a detective, after all.

“She’s single, you know,” she said, off-hand.  She pretended not to notice the little glimmer of hope that ran across his features.

Barba fidgeted with his cell phone and didn’t say anything.

“Are  _you_  seeing anyone?” she asked.  

Barba scoffed.  “You know I’m not.”

Liv smiled wider.  “You could ask her out.”

He scoffed again.  “It’s a conflict of interest.”

“How many people have dated between NYPD and the district attorney’s office?” she replied with a roll of her eyes.  “Lots. Myself included.”

“Well, she’d never say yes, regardless.  She’s not interested.” Barba stood up, his shoulders hunched and tight with tension. “Are we done here?”

Liv held her hands up in mock surrender.  “We’re done.” She watched Barba visibly relax, then added, “so, when I see Y/F/N in the courtroom, watching you with those big puppy dog eyes, I’ll just assume that’s a lack of interest on her part.  Got it.”  She laughed as she watched her friend’s handsome face flush, and she turned off her computer and grabbed her stuff.

“Walk me out?” she asked. He nodded and held her coat while she slid her arms into it.  They walked in silence to the elevator, and rode it down in silence as well.  It wasn’t until they reached the parking garage that Barba cleared his throat and asked, “so, she watches me in the courtroom?”


	3. Chapter 3

You sat at the darkest corner seat at the bar in Forlini’s, nursing a drink.  All told, the trial was the best you could have expected.  Now it was Friday night, and you had the whole weekend to drink away the past few months.

You had found the common link between all the raped women – the cleaning service.  It hadn’t registered at first, because each location – the low-cost clinic, the bank, the middle school – all had different employees who cleaned for the company, but the owner was the same.  Or, specifically, the owner’s son.  Max Lucas.  

Once you found the link, SVU was able to build a prosecutable case for Barba.  And the ADA did his best, as always:  he laid out the case for the jury, bringing in experts to help bolster the scant physical evidence.  The problem was that a lot of the evidence was circumstantial.  Max was good – too good.  And his lawyers were able to explain away a lot of the physical evidence.  The fibers, the hair.  It could all be explained because of the cleaning company that he helped with sometimes.

And he was charming. He was a good looking man, clean-cut and well-spoken.  People always wanted to imagine the monsters as  _other_ from them.  But Barba had brought out Max’s ugly side during cross, luckily.

Max was found guilty on half the charges – the ones against the teacher and bank executive and student. Not guilty on the sex workers and addict.  Typical. You had grown up knowing that some lives just didn’t matter, but the constant reminder in your adult life didn’t help.

You finished your drink and tapped on the bar for another.  As the bartender mixed it, you scanned the room.  And saw a familiar face walking towards you.

“Counselor,” you greeted him as he settled into the stool besides yours.  “Good job today.”  You nodded at the bartender as he slid your fresh drink in front of you.  “Thanks for all your help,” you told Barba, half-tipping the drink in a salute in his direction.  “For finding justice and stuff.”  You took a deep swallow of your drink, feeling the pleasant burn as it went down your throat and settled into the low burn in your belly.  “Liv’s not here, if you’re looking for her,” you added.  “It’s just me.”

* * *

Barba ordered a drink and turned to face you.  “Just you, huh?  At least it’s not Amaro.”  He watched you shake your head and smile.  You took another sip and turned to face him.  

“What is it with you and Nick?” you asked.  “Is it a Cuban thing?  Are Cubans like Highlanders?”

Barba crinkled his brow in confusion.  “Highlanders?”

“You know,” you replied. You pulled the decorative plastic sword from your drink and brandished it at him.  “There can be only one?  Chop off the head and steal their power?”  You watched him, then shrugged.  “Before your time, I guess.”

He smothered the urge to laugh because you seemed so serious.  He knew you were hurting; he saw you every day during the two-week trial, and he had watched the dark circles deepen under your eyes and noticed your fingernails gnawed to the quick.  After the verdict, he had watched you flee the courthouse and had a guess about where you went.  When he found you hunched over in the dark corner of the bar, he knew he was right.

“Before my time?” he asked lightly.  “I have a good couple of decades on you, I think.”

You shrugged again. “A couple of decades?  I’m not _that_ young.  You don’t know how old I am.  Maybe I’m an immortal.”  You lifted your glass, paused.  “Doomed to wander the earth, fighting the futile fight against evil.” He watched you finish your drink. “Anyway, if you and Nick are gonna fight all the time, you might as well make it worthwhile.  Pop off your shirts and wrestle, give the ladies something to watch.”  You made a face, then popped the lime slice garnish in your mouth, wincing against the sourness, and signaled for another drink.

Barba raised his eyebrow at your stream of consciousness monologue.  He took a sip of his own drink.  The two of you watched the bartender mix your drink and place it in front of you.  “Never took you as one to drink girl-drinks.”

You held your daquiri in front of you, squinting at it.  Despite looking exhausted, Barba thought you were beautiful.  Your eyes were bleary but still bright, and your hair fell around your face.  And, it was shaping up, you were an adorable drunk.

“A daquiri is not a girl-drink,” you admonished him.  “It’s literally rum and juice.  And sugar.” You paused.  When you continued, you sounded more aggravated.  “Besides, what’s wrong with girl stuff?  Just because I’m a hard-boiled detective, I’m supposed to drink something brown and corrosive?”  You pointed at his single-malt scotch.  “Gross.”

Barba held his glass up the light, letting it filter through the amber liquid.  “This is the nectar of the gods,” he teased you.  “Macallan, 12-year double cask.”  He took a sip, letting it roll over his tongue.  “You have to have a refined palate to truly appreciate it though.”

“Gross,” you said again. You adopted a fake-snobby accent. “I’m detecting notes of peat moss and smoke and an undertone of pretentious bullshit.”

Barba choked on his scotch, coughing violently.  His eyes blurred with tears as he hacked and coughed, his throat burning.  He felt you reach out and thump him companionably on the back.

“Pretentious?” he wheezed. He placed his hand over his heart. “That hurts me, Detective.”

You shrugged, but he caught the corner of your mouth quirk into a smile.  “We didn’t all get to go to Harvard, Counselor.  We didn’t all get to major in law and the flavor profiles of liquor.”

He leaned closer to you, smirking at the unexpected sass that rum apparently brought out in you. “And which degree-mill did you party your way through, hmm?”  He looked into your eyes and held your gaze.  He knew that much about you, from his casual questions to Liv.  “Oh yeah, you went to that clown college, MIT. Full scholarship too, right?”  He watched the surprised smile spread across your face.  Then he watched it fade.  You took a deep swallow of your drink.  

“It didn’t matter, all those stupid degrees.”  You finished your drink and sat the glass down with a thunk.  “I can’t save anybody.  I’m like a doctor, running into a disaster zone, slapping band-aids on bullet holes.”  You signaled for another drink, then hung your head.

Barba made eye contact with the bartender and waved off your refill.  He pulled his wallet out and slid his card across the bar, gesturing that he’d cover both tabs.  He signed the slip, and hesitated before placing his hand on your arm.  You raised you head, and your eyes were swimming with tears that threatened to fall.

“I know you’re upset about the verdict today,” he said softly.  You started to shake your head, but he gently placed his hand on your jaw, forcing you to face him.  “The system isn’t perfect.  It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t work sometimes.”  A single tear spilled out over your lashes, and he wiped it away with his thumb.  He hadn’t meant to touch you, but you seemed so forlorn that he couldn’t help himself.  

“But…” you started, but he cut you off.  

“Have a little faith in people,” he chided you.  “Sentencing is next week.  I am going to line up victim impact testimony that will put him away for a long time, even if he was only convicted on half the charges.  For every sympathetic grandma the defense digs up, I’m going to put up five victims or family or friends.”  

You nodded once, and he released your face reluctantly.  You took a deep breath, shaky, and then another.  “Thanks,” you said.  You gave a bitter laugh.  “Sorry. I guess I’m a maudlin drunk tonight.”

“Don’t apologize.”  He pulled your coat from the stool beside you and held it out for you.  He couldn’t hold back the grin as you struggled to line up your arms to slide it on. Once on, he placed your bag over your shoulder and turned you to face him.  “Let’s get you home.  I’ll call my car.”

Standing, the alcohol hit you harder.  You wobbled as he led you out of the bar and onto the sidewalk as you waited for the car service.  You shivered, and Barba put an arm around you, pulling him to his side.  He rubbed your arm briskly in a gesture of warming you up.  You turned your head against his shoulder and sighed, and he watched as you closed your eyes. He supported your weight, holding you tight.

When the car pulled up, he jostled you gently and led you into the backseat.  Once he settled in beside you, you curled up against him, your face pressed into his arm with another sigh.  

“Y/L/N, what’s your address?” he asked as the driver sat, waiting for instructions.  Barba shook you gently again, but you only mumbled something unintelligible.  He thought about rifling through your bag to get to your driver’s license, but you had a death-grip on his arm that was entirely too pleasant.

So he gave the driver his address.

Once the car pulled up in front of his building, Barba shook you awake and navigated you out of the car. “We’re here,” he whispered.  

You looked around, confused. “Where’s here?”

Barba cleared his throat, suddenly nervous.  “My place.  I…I wasn’t sure where you lived. Sorry.”

You looked at his building, then looked at him.  “S’okay.” You shrugged and reached for his arm again.

He got you into the building and up the elevator and into his apartment.  He steered you to his couch, where you plopped down.  He knelt in front of you and pulled your boots off. Then he stood up.  “Stay here a minute,” he ordered.  You gave him half of a salute and leaned back against the couch and shut your eyes.

When he returned to the living room, you were fast asleep.  He hated to wake you – you seemed so peaceful after such a tough month, and he knew you needed the sleep.  He knelt back down in front of you and shook you awake gently.  You groaned, then opened your eyes.

“How much did you drink tonight?” he asked.

You scrunched your eyes closed in thought.  “’About twelve limes, probably,” you answered seriously.

He chuckled.  “Limes aren’t the problem, Y/F/N.  The alcohol is.”

You opened your eyes and stared at him.  “You called me by my first name.”

He chuckled again.  “I’ll call you any name you want if you drink this glass of water and take these aspirin for me.”  He handed you the glass and shook two tablets into your palm.  He watched you take your medicine, and he nodded in satisfaction when you finished your water.

“Now, Y/F/N,” he said, drawing out your name teasingly.  “Go to the bathroom and change into these.  I laid out a towel and washcloth if you want to wash up too.”  He handed you a Harvard Law t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and helped you stand up from the couch.  He pointed to the bathroom and watched you reel your way there.

You exited the bathroom a long moment later, swimming in his too-large clothes, your own clothes bundled in your arms. Your hair was damp around the edges and your face was scrubbed clean of makeup.  Barba placed his hand on your back and gently steered you into his bedroom, where he’d already turned down the bed for you.  You hesitated by the bed, and turned to look at him.  Your eyes were bleary with alcohol.  Confused.  

“Barba, I….” you started to say.  You bit your lip and dropped your gaze, a flush creeping up your neck.

“You sleep here tonight,” he said.  He took your bundle of clothes from you and placed them on top of his dresser.  He pushed you down gently until you were sitting on the edge of the bed.  “If you need anything, I’ll be out on the couch.”  He watched the emotions that flitted across your face.  Visible relief.  But also, maybe, disappointment.

Once you nestled under the covers, he crept out of the room and turned off the light.  He changed out of his suit and settled on the couch with a blanket and pillow.  As exhausted as he was, he had trouble falling asleep.  The trial had been rough on him too – there was so much prep work, writing out all the questions and counter-questions and every possible answer. It had been a tough case to prove, and while he always worked hard to win every case, he had given this case the extra 110 percent, since he knew how much it meant to you.

You were the first detective in his career to treat him like a person.  Romantic feelings aside, he could never say how much he appreciated the way you treated him.  Everyone else – even Liv – charged into his office, demanding warrants with no cause or legal miracles on flimsy evidence.  They expected him to find loopholes in decades-old laws, and even when he did, they never thanked him.  Until you came along.

You always made a point to greet him, ask him about his evening or weekend.  You always thanked him when he came through, and you never blamed him when he failed.  When he lost a case, you were always there with an encouraging word.  Having you in his corner, literally in the courtroom, cheering his victories and commiserating his losses….it meant a lot to him.

And then, there were the other feelings, the irritating ones that distracted him more and more.  He had given up on romance and love and having a significant other a long time ago.  First Yelina, then a series of other women who left him brokenhearted. It was just easier to focus on work and put all that behind him.

But your politeness and courtesy aside…there was your care of the victims, your zealous pursuit of justice.  And tonight, with your walls down, he got to see more of you.  A playful side, then a sorrowful side.  And one that apparently trusted him to take care of you when you needed it. The fact that you were curled up in his bed right now said as much.

He rolled onto his side and groaned.  He tried to push the image of you in his clothes, you sitting on the edge of his bed and looking up at him with your wide eyes.  He imagined an evening like the one you’d just spent together, but with fewer drinks and more…well, more touching.  He thought about how you nestled against him in the car, your head against his shoulder.  You always seemed so careful around him, but apparently, he thought with a chuckle, it only took about twelve limes and an indeterminate amount of rum to change that. 

Barba wondered if he could get you to open up around him without the help of drinks.  Your face had lit up when he called you by your first name. Maybe, he thought, if he dropped his own walls a bit, you might reciprocate.  

He sighed and rolled onto his back.  He replayed the evening again and again, relishing the parts where you leaned against him or held his arm or drunkenly teased him with that glint in your eye.  He thought of you in his bed; he thought about crawling in beside you.  He felt a familiar tension below the belt and thought about indulging it – then thought better of it.  The last thing he needed was you, stumbling out looking for the bathroom or a glass of water, to find him furiously masturbating on the couch.  

He rolled onto his side again and punched the pillow into shape.  Sleep was a long time coming, but right before he fell asleep, his last thought was of you.


	4. Chapter 4

You woke up slowly, gradually drifting to the surface of consciousness.  Normally, you jolted awake when your alarm rang, but it never did. You just…. woke up.  With a headache and a cottony mouth.  In a strange bed.

It was a comfortable bed, with big pillows and luxurious sheets.  Much nicer than your cheap jersey sheets, for sure.  You could get used to this.

Then you remembered, all of a sudden, the prior evening.  Drunk and babbling at the bar.  To…. someone.  You covered your face with your hands and moaned.  You remembered those green eyes, teasing you and taking off your boots and easing you into bed.  Barba.

You climbed out of bed carefully and considered exiting through the floor-to-ceiling bedroom window. It’d be less embarrassing, being dead, than facing him.  You paused and listened carefully.  Through the closed bedroom door, you could hear someone – cooking from the sounds of it. You could hear the clatter of cutlery and glasses clinking.  You considered jumping again, but instead ran your hands through your hair.  You hitched up the waist of the sweatpants you wore – they were way too big – then bit the proverbial bullet.  You opened the bedroom door and padded out into the big open space that included the kitchen.

Barba stood at the stove, but he turned as you walked into the room.  “Morning,” he said cheerfully.  “You hungry?”

You gaped at him.  He was wearing a worn grey v-neck t-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair tousled by his night on the couch.  He caught your confused look.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you replied. You eased yourself into a dining room chair, and he set a glass of orange juice in front of you.  You shook your head at him and gave him a sheepish grin, avoiding his eyes.  “I’m 80 percent embarrassed about last night.  And 20 percent confused about you in casual clothes.”

He walked back to the stove and turned off the gas burner.  He slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate and sat that in front of you too. “Coffee’s almost ready,” he said. “And it’s not like I sleep in my suits, you know.”

“And I’m about ten percent confused about you cooking,” you added.  You picked up your fork and dug in.

“Eighty plus twenty plus ten is more than a hundred percent.  Guess they don’t teach math at MIT,” he smirked.  He made another circuit between kitchen and dining room, this time bringing you a mug of steaming coffee.  He brought his own mug over and settled into the chair opposite you to watch you eat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You shrugged and swallowed a bite of egg.  “Bit of a headache.  I’m not much of a drinker usually.”  You pointed at your plate with your fork.  “These are really good, by the way.”

“I like cooking.  Just don’t have much reason to, usually.”

You smiled and scooped up another bite, glancing up at him from time to time.  He watched you carefully, but you weren’t as self-conscious as you usually were.  Maybe it was his suits that put you on edge, and seeing him in loungewear allowed you to relax a little.

You pushed your empty plate away and picked up your mug.  “I’m really sorry about last night,” you said.  You blew across your coffee and sipped it with caution.  “I was upset and acted really unprofessionally.”

Barba took a sip of his own coffee.  “No need to apologize.”  He smirked again.  “Though it  _is_  unprofessional to insult a man’s choice of hard liquor.”

You dropped your head into your hands in shame.  “Ugh, I remember,” you groaned.

“And you suggested that Nick and I should fight topless for the benefit of women everywhere.”

“No!” you wailed.  You buried your red-hot face in your arms on the table.  You vaguely remembered that too, because you remembered picturing the ADA shirtless and had ate the lime garnish to give your mouth something else to do other than spill all your innermost thoughts.  You heard Barba laughing beside you and you grumbled.  At least someone was enjoying themselves.

You raised your head and peeked at him through your lowered eyelids.  Your gaze drifted down to his v-neck, where a scattering of dark chest hair curled against the chain of the cross he wore.  You closed your eyes with a wince.  “Well, the nice thing about working in law enforcement is that I can probably fake my death and start a new life somewhere else,” you joked feebly. “I know what not to do, I guess.”

“Well, before you head off into the ether, stick with me for one more week.”  You raised your head and stared at him.  He leaned forward and continued.  “You were pretty upset last night.  Do you remember what I told you?”

You thought for a moment, then shook your head no.  

“I told you to have a little faith.  You’ll see. Help me line up those victim impact statements next week, and you’ll see that the jury really sees this guy for what he is.  Then you can wander into the wilderness, never to be seen again.”

You looked up at his face, earnest and heartfelt.  His eyes bore into you so intently, you almost wondered if he could read your thoughts. Your eyes skimmed over him – the dark hair at the neckline of his shirt, his arms folded across the table, hair large hands and tapered fingers.  You really, really hoped he couldn’t read your thoughts at this particular moment. You nodded at him.

“Good,” he declared. He tapped on the table in front of you, then stood up.  “Finish your coffee, get changed, and I’ll drive you home on my way into the office. You rest up this weekend, and I’ll start laying the groundwork to get this scumbag put away for a good long while.” You nodded again.

“And Y/F/N?  After sentencing, before you go to start your new life, I’m taking you out for celebratory drinks instead of sad ones.” He smirked as you stood up and gifted him with a small shamefaced smile at the mention of your first name.  You could feel him watching you as you made your way back to his bedroom to change into your clothes.  

“I’m going to teach you how to appreciate fine scotch,” he called out after you.  And then, to your eternal embarrassment, he added, “and in exchange for the cultural education, you can tell me all about how you like to imagine Nick and I fighting topless over you.”

There was no need to jump from that floor-to-ceiling window after all.  You were certain that you’d drop dead from shame any moment.

* * *

The week flew by in a blur, so fast that Barba barely had time to catch his breath.  It was a whirlwind of victims, parading through his office and the courtroom:  the survivors of Max Lucas’ vicious attacks.  The family and friends of those that didn’t make it.  The defense trotted out their own character witnesses – family, mainly – but in the end, Barba had been right.  The jury voted to sentence the maximum per charge.  To be served consecutively.  Which meant, according to his math, that Max Lucas would be about seventy when he was eligible for parole, and eighty when his sentence was fully served.  

When the sentence was read, Barba felt a weight melt from his shoulders.  He took his job so seriously; it was the only real thing in his life, but he wanted so badly to nail this guy for you.  After the judge dismissed the jury and adjourned court, he turned around and searched for your face in the gallery.  You were sitting with the mother of the sex worker who had died. You had your arm around the old woman’s shoulders as they were wracked with sobs, and you looked up at him and held his gaze.  Your own eyes were brilliant with unshed tears, and maybe, admiration for him. Barba nodded at you, and you tilted your head back at him.

He made his way to the courthouse steps and answered some reporters’ questions.  He went to his office and handed off some paperwork for Carmen to file.  He sat down at his desk with a sigh.  After the frenzy of the trial and the sentencing, he felt strange to not be rushing to the next task.  He grabbed his coat and his briefcase, then walked out of his office.

“I’m heading out for an early weekend,” he said to Carmen.  He pretended not to notice the shocked look on her face – she’d been his assistant since he joined Manhattan’s office, and she probably never saw him knock off early.  “You should head out too,” he added.  “Take advantage of the lull.”

“I will, Mr. Barba,” she called out.  “Have a good weekend!”

Instead of heading home, though, he turned towards the 16th precinct.  It was still afternoon, and he guessed that you were probably finishing up your own paperwork and breathing a sigh of relief that the ordeal was over.

As he walked into the bullpen, he saw he was right.  You were bent over your laptop, typing furiously.  Your head was bent, and your hair was pulled up into a messy bun, so he could see the smooth column of the back of your neck.  He imagined sneaking up on you and pressing a kiss on your neck, right under your hairline where a few short strands curled against your skin. He imagined the shriek you’d give, worse than the evening he startled you a month ago.

Not that Barba would kiss you without your consent in the middle of the sex crimes unit, but Amaro gave him away anyway.  “Counselor,” he said when he saw Barba walk in.  “Good job,” he added with a grumble.  

You half-turned in your seat and smiled at him.  “Yeah,” you said softly.  “Great job.”

Barba sat down in the chair beside your desk.  “And?” he asked with a grin.  “What else?”

You mumbled your answer.

“What was that?” Barba asked.  

“I said, you were right.” You looked up; Barba followed you gaze and caught Amaro staring at the two of you.  When he turned back to look at you, your face was beet red.  You sighed, and added, “I should have more faith in people.”  

“Correct,” Barba said. “And now, you owe me a scotch.” He turned towards your partner. “You mind covering the last hour of her shift so that she can have a drink in celebration?”

Amaro scowled at him, but Liv strolled over and cut him off before he could start.  “I’ll cover,” she said kindly.  “You really broke this case and helped bring this guy to justice, Y/F/N.”

You smiled in relief and closed your computer.  “Thanks, Liv. I owe you one.”  You gathered up your stuff and stood up, Barba standing beside you.  “Have a good weekend.”

“You too,” she replied as she dropped Barba a wink.  

You were both quiet as you walked out of the building.  Barba ordered a car, and you both waited on the curb for it.  The silence felt awkward, but he didn’t know how to dispel it.  The truth was, he felt he knew you pretty well – knew the hidden parts that you probably hid from casual acquaintances. He’d seen you cry, seen you in your lowest moments, and he knew you well enough to realize that you kept that pretty hidden from the world.  But for the life of him, he didn’t know how to get below the surface to some middle ground with you.  How to make you comfortable enough that you could look him in the eye without being embarrassed.  He wanted to know you better – all of you:  your likes and dislikes and what your dreams were and what it was like growing up. But he was out of practice with dating, and you weren’t just some woman to him.

The car pulled up and you both climbed in.  Barba gave the driver the address and you rode in silence too.  You sat stiffly beside him, your messenger bag clasped so tightly in your hands that your knuckles were white.  It was a far cry from the other ride you had shared, where you had nestled against him so trustingly the memory of it made his chest ache.  Then he remembered how you lit up when he used you first name instead of your last.   _Quid pro quo_ , he thought to himself.  He had to relax and open up to get you to do the same.

So he reached over and placed a hand over yours, patting it until you visibly relaxed.  “You don’t have to come out if you don’t want to,” he said quietly.  “I was only teasing about you owing me.”

“I want to,” you murmured. “I’m just nervous.”

“Why?”

He felt you shrug beside him.  “Maybe I haven’t…. drank much scotch in my life.”

“ _Quid pro quo_ , Barba,” he thought.  Out loud, he replied, “if it helps, I haven’t…. drank scotch in a while myself.”

The car pulled up then to an unfamiliar street, and you turned to look at Barba in confusion. “Not Forlini’s?”  He shook his head and climbed out, extending a hand to help you.  You followed him out of the car and read the sign hanging over the door to the bar.  “MacNair’s Pub?” you asked with a laugh.  “So you…. literally brought me to a Scottish bar to drink scotch?”

He smiled as he held the bar door open for you.  “It’s quiet and tourist-free.  But it’s mostly because you called me and Amaro outlanders.”

“Highlanders,” you corrected.  “ _Outlander_  is the time-traveling romance.   _The Highlander_  was a movie in the ‘80s about immortals.”  He led you to a booth in the back as you told him the basic plot line.  You both settled into you seats and ordered from the waitress who flitted by your table. 

“Is it a good movie?” he asked.  He shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket.  He watched you watching him, smirking inwardly.  He’d caught you watching his hands more than once, and after Liv had casually mentioned your apparent love of well-tailored menswear, he made a point of wearing his best three-piece suits when he knew he’d be seeing you. Today, for example, he had made sure to wear the one that Liv indicated you liked best:  the deep grey that offset his eyes, with the light blue checked shirt. 

You cleared your throat. “It’s a terrible movie.”  You ducked your head and continued.  “But I like terrible movies.  Roger Corman’s  _Fantastic Four_ ,  _the Room_.”

“What’s the worst one you’ve seen?”

You laughed, and it was music to his ears.  “ _The Star Wars Holiday Special_.  I watch it every Christmas.  It’s my own personal tradition.”

The waitress brought your drinks over – a daiquiri and a scotch.  He lifted his glass and held it until you lifted yours, and he held your gaze. “To having a little faith,” he said. You smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners.  It was the first, real smile he’d seen you give before.  You clinked glasses in a toast.  “Now pace yourself,” he scolded you lightly.  “No one needs to hear about your fantasies about wrestling Cubanos.”

* * *

It was a wonderful evening. Remembering your disastrous last night out at a bar, your nursed your drink, drank plenty of water, and let Barba order food for you both to pick at.  Your nervousness faded, and before long, you were laughing and chattering with the ADA.  He told you about his childhood, growing up in the Bronx, and getting a scholarship to Harvard.  You, in turn, opened up about your own childhood spent in and out of foster care and your own full ride to MIT.  He told you about his abusive father, you told him that you didn’t even know who your father was.

It felt strange.  You didn’t open up to many people; your past pretty much guaranteed that.  You gave out bits and pieces to people, sometimes – Liv and Nick and some of your friends from college and your old mentor at the FBI.  But you had never just sat with someone and just gave them the whole backstory.   Certainly never a man you had such an infatuation with.

You hadn’t lied in the ride to the bar.  You hadn’t dated in a very long time and couldn’t, in good faith, really ever say that you’d been in a relationship.  There’d been a guy in college; you both were virgins and once you were both disappointed by the other’s lack of experience, you’d drifted apart.  When you moved to New York, you dabbled with online dating, but after a slew of unwanted dick pics and little else, you deleted your profiles and prepared yourself for a life alone and a gradual slide into spinsterhood.  

The crush on Barba wasn’t unexpected, but the gradual blossoming of a tentative friendship was. Over the course of the case and then the trial, he’d treated you differently than in the past.  He was gentler with his demands for evidence. He teased you without malice.  He seemed to sense when you were nearing a breaking point, and he would lay a reassuring hand on your arm or shoulder or hand and give you a look that went straight through you.  It had all culminated with the drunken night at his place, but even that was unexpected:  he nursed you through your hangover and was a complete gentleman.

And now you were here, sitting beside him in a dimly lit pub, talking about shitty fathers and laughing about bad movies.  You weren’t drunk, but you felt pleasantly buzzed, and you were almost certain that it wasn’t because of the alcohol.  His arm was slung over the back of the booth, close to you.  You could smell him, his unique blend of whatever woodsy cologne he wore and the single malt double cask whatever he was drinking.  You shifted your gaze to his glass, and his shapely fingers tapping against it.  You smiled.

He saw your smile and held the glass out to you.  “You want to try it?” he asked.  “Or do you want to stick with your glorified Kool-Ade?”

You poked him in the side with your elbow as you feigned outrage.  “So you have jokes now, Counselor?  Maybe stick to your day job.”

He jostled his glass at you. “Try it, expand your horizons.”  You took the glass and raised it to your lips, his eyes practically burning through you.  “Take a sip, but don’t swallow it right away.  Let it wash over your tongue so that it hits all of your taste buds.” You scowled at him and tried to focus on the scotch.  Hitting all the taste buds meant that it tasted extra awful.  You swallowed it with a shudder.  It burned your throat.

“Tastes like turpentine,” your rasped.  Your eyes were watery and the alcohol made you wheeze.

Barba smirked and handed you your water, which you accepted gratefully.  The waitress, hovering nearby, took the break in your conversation to ask if you needed anything else.

“I’m good,” Barba said, and you nodded, trying to hide your disappointment.  The two of you spent hours at the bar, but the time flew by and you wished the evening weren’t ending.  Barba took the check - he waved you off when you offered to pay, even grabbing your wrist and removing your hand when you reached for your wallet. His hand was warm, and it easily circled your wrist.  He released you, and you both slid out of the booth and left the bar.

Barba ordered a taxi, and you both stood in silence again, but a comfortable one this time.  You were still disappointed to be calling it a night, but you felt a warm sort of buzzing in your head and stomach.  When the car pulled up, you both climbed in and gave your addresses.  You lived in Alphabet City, so the driver headed towards your place first.

When you arrived at your place, Barba got out first to let you out.  “Give me a minute,” he told the driver.  He walked you to your door, and you practically dragged your feet to extend the moment.  When you both stood at the front door to your building, you turned to face him as you dug in your bag for your keys.

“I had a really great time,” you said shyly.  “It was a nice end to a pretty rough time.  The case, I mean, and trial were rough.”  You tried to clarify, but only rambled, and you tried to stop your stupid mouth. You took a breath and started to clarify your clarification, but Barba cut you off.  He reached out and took the strap of your messenger bag in his hand, pulling you closer to him.  He hesitated, then laid his free hand along the side of your face.  “I know what you meant,” he murmured.  His eyes scanned your face for any reluctance.  His voice dropped half an octave, and he added, “I really want to kiss you…”  He trailed off, not asking the question, letting it hang unasked in the night air.

“Please,” you replied. Your voice was barely a whisper. He shifted the hand on your face so that it cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangled in your hair. He pulled you even closer until his lips were ghosting over yours.  He seemed unsure, almost nervous – you could detect just the faintest tremor in his hand. In a sudden wave of bravery, you leaned forward and closed the gap between you.

His lips were warm and soft. He paused, and then he pressed his mouth against yours with more force.  He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping you gently.  You couldn’t stop the moan that rose from your throat, and he took the opportunity to trace his tongue against the seam of your lips, prodding against the entrance to your mouth.  You obliged, parting your lips, and he deepened the kiss by sliding his tongue into your mouth.  The kiss sent shards of molten heat to your core, and your legs threatened to give out. Barba pulled away, reluctantly and breathlessly, leaning his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he said, his gravelly voice rumbling through you.  “I had hoped that tonight…” he trailed off, then stammered, “Not that I was planning anything.  I mean….”

You cut him off by quickly pressing your lips against his again before you pulled away.  “I know what you meant,” you teased.  You turned and looked at the taxi, it’s meter probably running well into the thousands of dollars.  He followed your gaze.  

“I should go,” he said. He looked as disappointed as you felt when you’d left the bar, and you took a chance.  You reached out, placing your hands on his chest and snaking them under his coat and suit jacket, on top of his vest and shirt.  You tugged on his loosened tie.  

“You could stay,” you said. You kept your eyes level to his chest, watching your hands as they laid on his chest.  You could feel him staring at you, his green eyes dark with desire. He tilted your head until you couldn’t avoid his eyes anymore.

“I wouldn’t expect anything,” he said.  “Absolutely nothing you aren’t comfortable with.”  At that point, though, between the memory of the kiss and his scorching gaze, you would probably be comfortable with just about anything. But you nodded at him.  

He released you and jogged down to the street to pay the taxi.  He returned, sprinting up the steps, slightly breathless.  Your turned with a shaky hand to unlock your building’s front door, and he stood behind you, close enough that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck.  As the key turned in the lock, you felt him press a gentle kiss to your neck, right below your hairline.  You smiled and led him into your building.


	5. Chapter 5

As you went to unlock the door to your apartment, you paused, and Barba could practically feel the uncertainty radiating off of you.  You turned and looked at him over your shoulder.  “Sorry about my apartment,” you said.  “Maybe we could go to your place?”

He snorted and placed a hand lightly on your waist.  “You running a meth lab in there?”  He watched the apples of your cheeks redden.  

“It’s just not really decorated,” you muttered.  “It’s not nice like your place.”  You turned back around and unlocked the deadbolt.  You opened the door, and with his hand still on your waist, he gently pushed you into your apartment.

It was small – he hadn’t expected much else on your detective’s salary.  But it was charming, and it reflected a personality that he was getting to know better.  A comfortable-looking, overstuffed couch was centered under a giant framed print of the night sky.  Mismatched shelves were stuffed with books and DVDs.  The mantle over a defunct fireplace was lined with an interesting assortment of items:  a fossil propped up on a plastic stand, a geode perfectly cracked in half, a delicate looking vase.  And a framed picture.  He walked over and looked at it closer – it was you, in a grey cap and gown, and an older woman.  You came over and stood beside him.

“Graduation,” you said. You tapped the glass with your finger, pointing at the woman in the picture.  “She was my case worker for most of my childhood.”

You said it so matter-of-factly that it made his heart ache.  His own childhood had been far from idyllic, but he had a wonderful mother and grandmother and a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins.  When he graduated from Harvard, the entire rowdy bunch wanted to attend and he had to trade favors for extra tickets.  He imagined you graduating, walking across the stage with no one to cheer you on but a civil servant.  The thought made him reach for you.  He pulled you into a rough hug, and he pressed a kiss into the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your shampoo deeply.  You stood stiff and unresponsive for a moment, then he felt your arms snake under his coat and wrap around his back.

“I like your place,” he murmured against your head.  You pulled back and looked up into his face.  “You don’t need to keep apologizing for being yourself.”  He laid a light kiss on your forehead, then one on each side of your face.  He dropped his voice lower, and added, “I happen to like you the way you are.”  He watched the smile spread across your face, then he lowered his head and captured your mouth with his.

He placed one hand on the side of your face, gently tilting your head so that he could deepen the kiss. He alternated between chaste, closed-mouth kisses and searing open-mouthed ones, where he slid his tongue into your mouth, tasting the citrus and rum and your own flavor.  He took his other hand and placed it under your coat on your waist, then ran it from the roundness of your hip up to swell of the side of your breast.  He felt your hands still on his back, scrabbling against the fabric of his suit jacket.  

He broke the kiss reluctantly, leaving you both a bit breathless.  Your Y/E/C eyes were dark, your pupils wide, and your face was flushed with want.  Your lips were parted as you tried to catch your breath.  Barba pulled his hand away from your face and gripped the other side of your waist.  He pulled you flush against him, and you groaned when you felt the proof of his desire for you pressed against your leg.  He smirked and dipped his head beside yours, capturing your earlobe between his teeth before he whispered, “Can we finish this apartment tour now?” He pulled back to watch your reaction – pure lust shot through with nervousness.  He took your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.  “We can sit and talk too,” he said softly.  “Or maybe watch one of your terrible movies.  Whatever you want.  No pressure.”

* * *

He was so understanding, you almost burst into tears.  Instead, you disentangled your arms from him and took a step back.  He looked gorgeous – his tie loosened and his suit slightly rumpled from you pawing at him, his hair tousled.  His eyes, boring right through you, making the pleasantly uncomfortable pressure low in your belly build.  You were both still in your coats – you hadn’t even gotten a chance to remove them before he charged into your apartment and made himself at home. You smiled, and with slightly shaking hands, helped him out of his outerwear.  You tossed his coat over the back of your couch, then added your own coat and bag.  Then you took his hand and led him into your bedroom.

* * *

He wanted nothing more than to toss you on the bed and ravish you then and there, but he knew he needed to go slow.  Besides, taking things slowly was its own sort of pleasure.  He wanted to make it last.  He didn’t want it to ever end.

Your bedroom was dark – the walls were painted dark blue, and heavy curtains blocked out any light from the street.  You saw him looking around and shrugged.    
  
“It’s hard to sleep sometimes with my schedule,” you explained.  “This helps.”

“Makes sense,” he replied. He stepped around you and sat on the edge of the bed.  He patted the space beside him, and you sat down.  He took your hand and threaded his fingers with yours.

“We really can just sit and talk,” he said.  You snorted, and he continued, almost shyly.  “I’ve waited for a year just to get up the courage to kiss you.  I can probably wait a decade for more, if you wanted.”

You raised your twined hands together to your mouth and laid a kiss on the back of his hand.  You took a deep breath, and he could feel you rehearsing your words in your head first.  He smirked to himself – you seemed to run your mouth around him without much thought, sometimes.

Hands still locked, he pulled you onto his lap until you were curled against him.  He locked his arms around you, holding you close, and your face was nestled in the nook between his head and chest.  You squirmed for a moment – he groaned inwardly at the delicious sudden friction in his lap – but then you spoke.

“I’ve never really done this before,” you mumbled from your spot under his jaw.  “I had a boyfriend for a little bit in college, but it wasn’t for very long and we were both…. inexperienced.”  You trailed off for a moment, then continued.  “It wasn’t much fun.”

He squeezed his arms, hugging you tight.  “That’s okay.”

He could feel the heat from your face against his neck.  “I just want to be….good.”  
  
“You’re already-“ he started to say, but you broke in suddenly, a rush of words spilling from your mouth, so fast he could barely catch everything you were saying.

“But I’m a good detective, right?  And I always try to do my best on the cases I bring you and now you expect me to do a good job, and  _now_  I feel like I’m going to disappoint you because I’ve never really dated and you probably have all this experience with beautiful sex goddesses and I don’t even know where to put my hands, let alone any mind-blowing moves…”

He cut you off, locking his arms around you and swiveling both of you onto the bed.  You let out a surprised squeal as he laid you out and stretched alongside you, half of his weight on the bed beside you and the other half pressed against you.  You opened your mouth to talk, but he didn’t give you the chance.  He crashed his lips against yours with a growl, and you opened your mouth to him, and he shoved his tongue roughly into your mouth, tangling with yours.  He pulled away every few seconds to growl at you, punctuating his lecture with more bruising kisses.  “Don’t,” he said.  “Ever think.” He pulled your bottom lip between his, then released it.  “You aren’t enough for me.”  He moved from your mouth, laying a wet trail of kisses along your jawline as you writhed underneath him.  He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at you, panting.  He waited a moment for his heart to stop racing.  

“I’ve never slept with a sex goddess,” he said with a chuckle.  He kissed the corner of your mouth, and continued.  “And as an old man, I’m not really looking for mind-blowing acrobatics.”  You scoffed at the mention of his age, and he kissed the other corner of your mouth to keep you quiet.  He reached down for your hands, placing one on his chest and then the other on his bicep. 

“You can do whatever you want with your hands,” he told you with a gleam in his eyes.  “I want you to touch me as much as I want to touch you.” He waited until you looked at him and nodded in understanding.  He continued.

“There’s only a couple rules you have to remember:  if you say stop, I stop.  And if you like something, let me know.”  He smirked, and added, “so I can keep doing it.”  

You nodded again, your face serious.  Then you shifted your eyes away from his.  “What if it takes me awhile?  To…to…you know….”

He pulled away in mock horror.  “You mean I might have to spend even more time in bed with you?  That sounds terrible.”  He stroked the side of your face and laid kisses across your forehead and cheeks, mapping your features with his lips.  Then a thought occurred to him, and he pulled back again to watch you.

“Did you ever have an orgasm with your first boyfriend?”  He watched you cover your eyes with your hand.

“No,” you replied, your voice small.

“Y/F/N,” he said gently. He pulled your hand away from your eyes. “Look at me.”  You opened your eyes and gave him a rueful half-grin.

“Have you…ever had one?” he asked.  “At all?”

You shook your head and sighed.  “I don’t think so.  I don’t really, uh, look after myself.  That way. You know.”  You flapped your free hand, gesturing wildly.  “If I get, you know, worked up – I just…just go for a run. Burn off my energy that way.”  You grimaced and added, “Sorry.”

* * *

Barba crashed his mouth against yours again, kissing you deeply.  He broke contact and said sternly, “I told you to stop apologizing to me.”  His somber face shifted as a slow grin spread across his face.  It was the one you called his “shark’s smile;” he got it in the courtroom when he caught a defendant in one of his verbal snares. Seeing it directed at you made the molten heat between your legs throb with need.  You reached out for him and ran your hands lightly across his chest.

“Barba,” you said shyly. “Can I…undress you?”

His green eyes darkened and he sat up on the bed.  “Of course.” 

He stood up and pulled you up to stand in front of him.  You hesitated.  Then you stepped around him, turning off the overhead light.  The bedroom was plunged into darkness.

“Am I that terrible looking?” he joked.  In the darkness though, he couldn’t see your face, and you felt braver and less nervous.

“No,” you answered seriously.  “You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever known.”  You returned to stand in front of him and fumbled until your hands got oriented in the dark.  You eased his suit jacket off and tossed it over the chair in the corner.  You could picture his green eyes, doing that thing where they stared a hole into you, but you were safe in the dark.  You unbuttoned his waistcoat and it joined the coat. You loosened his tie and tossed it too. He stood stock-still in front of you, silent except for the occasional ragged breath that tore out of his throat.

You laid a trembling hand on his shirt, and undid the top button.  You rocked onto your toes and kissed the exposed skin of his throat.  As you released each button, you pressed a kiss to his undershirt, feeling the heat of his skin through the cloth.  

“Is this okay?” you asked. “Am I going too fast?”

He inhaled deeply and sounded half-strangled when he answered.  “You’re doing perfect.  Not too fast at all.”

You untucked his dress shirt and pushed it off of his shoulders.  You ran your hands over his arms.  “I really like your arms,” you confessed.  “And your hands.”

He laughed shakily. “I know.  I may have caught you ogling me a time or two.”  You paused, and he continued teasing you.  “It’s not very professional, treating your ADA like a piece of meat.”

“Hmm,” you replied. “ _My_  ADA, huh?”  You untucked his undershirt and slipped your hands under the hem, sliding your palms over his belly and chest and back down again.  He raised his arms and helped you pull the shirt off of him, then he groaned as you pressed your face against his chest, your breath hot on his skin.  “Just  _my_  ADA? Not Liv’s?”  Your hands made their way to his waist, and you hooked your fingers under his waistband, inching closer and closer to his belt buckle.  He groaned again, and put his hands over yours.

“Liv and I usually end up talking about you,” he muttered thickly.  “She was always teasing me about you, telling me to ask you out.” You fumbled at his belt buckle and he helped you unclasp it.  “But having a beautiful woman getting jealous over me is a nice shot to my ego.”  You kissed a path across his chest, relishing the feel of his coarse chest hair against your lips.  “Besides,” he added, “what about you and Amaro?”

You stilled your hands and pulled away from him.  “Nick?” You laughed.  “You think I have a thing for Nick?”

Barba sounded uncomfortable. “He’s single, good looking. Younger.”  You stilled him by tugging him by his waistband against you, pressing your pelvis against his.  He shuddered, then ground his erection against your hip with an involuntary jerk.

“Do you know what Fin and I call Nick?” you asked him, your voice husky with need.  “The Cuban Missile Crisis.  His life is a mess.”  You pressed against him harder, drawing another groan from him.  “He’s divorced with one kid, has another kid who thinks he’s his uncle, he sleeps with ‘Manda often enough to confuse her, he’s always punching his way into trouble….”  

You trailed off when Barba snaked his hands under your shirt, splaying them against the naked skin of your lower back.  He pulled you tight against him, and you wrapped your arms around his neck and rose up on your toes to kiss him.  Before you did, though, you murmured in his ear, “why on earth would I want him when I have the smartest, sexiest man right here?”

You kissed more, your tongues tangling and soft moans filling the room as Barba undressed you.  He unbuttoned your shirt, trailing his thumb over your exposed skin, tracing the lace edges of your bra as you shrugged out of your shirt.  You broke away long enough to take off your boots and socks.  He kicked off his own dress shoes and socks too.  He spread his fingers wide and held you by your waist, as if he wanted to touch as much of you as he could.  

“You still okay with this?” he asked.

By way of answering him, you unbuttoned his trousers and unzipped him, your knuckles inadvertently brushing against his erection.  “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed through his teeth, and you pushed his pants down around his ankles, allowing him to step out of them.  He released your waist and made short work of your own pants, kneeling down to help work them over your feet.  

On one knee, he held you steady by your hip as he lifted your left leg to ease your pants off, then repeated the gesture with your right leg.  Instead of releasing your right leg, though, he hooked it in one smooth movement over his shoulder.  He turned his head to lay a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your calf and on the side of your knee. And up your inner thigh.  You reached out, shaky on your one foot, and grabbed at his head.  You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle at first.  You gave it a sharp tug, however, when he sank his teeth in the soft flesh of your inner thigh and then ran his tongue over the stinging skin. You yelped, and he released your leg, standing in front of you.

“Was that too much?” he asked.  He couldn’t see your face, so he ran his hands over it instead, searching with his fingertips for any clue of discomfort on your part.

“Oh no,” you breathed out. “That was very good.”  You grabbed his hips, pulling them against yours, then walked both of you backwards until your legs bumped against the bed.  You sat down and scooted back until you were laying down.  “You’re very good with your mouth, counselor.”

He practically snarled as he crawled on top of you.  He laid his full weight on top of you, and you melted at the feeling of being pressed into the mattress.  He reached up and tilted your head to the side, then he started by kissing you sloppily under your ear.  

“Remember,” he growled. “You say stop, I stop.”

You wriggled underneath him. “Well, don’t stop yet.”

He kissed you under your ear again, then worked his way under your jaw to your other ear, then down your throat.  He pressed the tip of his tongue against your pulse point, and you whimpered at the sensation.  He moved to the crook of your neck and sucked a stinging bruise there.  “That’s so everyone knows that you’re mine,” he said, his voice low.  He then continued across your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts, running his tongue along the skin just under the edge of your bra.

You raised yourself up, allowing him to unclasp it and ease it over your arms.  He tossed it somewhere on the floor, then turned his attention to your breasts, capturing one in his big hand, kneading it gently. His mouth was on the other, leaving a wet trail of kisses before he placed the edges of his teeth on your nipple, flicking his tongue against it.

“Oh god,” you breathed shakily.  You griped his shoulder with one hand, and threaded the other through his hair at the back of his head.  You pulled his head against you tighter, your hips juddering upwards to meet his.

He broke away from your embrace for a moment.  “You know, you were very worried, but your hands seem to know exactly what to do after all,” he said with a laugh.  You smacked him playfully on the arm, your face red in the darkness.  He laughed again, then returned to his ministrations, shifting to your other breast and then continuing lower.

“Wait!” you gasped. You realized what he was planning next.  “You can’t do that.”

He pressed his face against the softness of you belly with a groan.  “Why?” he asked.

The want in his voice was apparent, making your core throb with desire, and you felt your resolve weakening.  “It’s just that guys don’t really want to do that,” you said, apologetic.  “You don’t have to….”

“Y/F/N,” he said, strain in his voice.  “How can you know what guys really want to do?”  He shifted his face and kissed the swell of your hip, right above the waistband of your panties.  “I can tell you what  _I_  want.”  He turned and kissed your other hip, tugging at the lace with his teeth.  “ _I_  want to strip these off of you, throw your legs over my shoulders, and devour you until you cum so hard you see stars.”  You whimpered and felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin.  “I want to make you unravel with my mouth, and I want to taste you.  Fuck, Y/F/N, I’ve imagined this so much…. just give me one minute, and if you want me to stop after that, I promise I will.  Please…just trust me a little….”

You thought about it a moment, then reached down and stroked his face.  “I trust you,” you whispered.

He leaned his head against your stomach again.  “Thank you,” he replied.  “Just one minute, that’s all I ask.”  He got up and slid you down the bed until your legs hung off the side.  “Just relax,” he whispered, and you lifted your hips to help him slide your soaked panties off.  You were grateful for the darkness; your face burned like the sun, embarrassed by how turned on you were, your arousal practically flooding the bed.  

Barba seemed to see it differently – he swiped a thumb over your slit and groaned loudly at how slick you were.  He ran his thumb across your seam as he knelt at the foot of the bed, placing the backs of your knees on either shoulder.  He turned to the left and kissed his way up your inner thigh, then did the same on the right, pressing an extra-firm kiss to the general vicinity of where he nipped you earlier.  The entire time, he worked his thumb against you.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel his breath tickling your most intimate parts.  You squirmed, and he laid a heavy forearm across your hips, stilling you.  

“None of that,” he said sternly.  You took a deep breath and started to apologize; you swore he could sense the “sorry” on the tip of your tongue, so with one swift movement, he buried his face between your legs, inhaling deeply.  You were so stunned, you didn’t react, and then he replaced his thumb with his tongue, drawing a long, wet line along your dripping core.  

The effect was like a bolt of lightning.  You arched your back involuntarily, struggling against the arm that pinned you down and pressing yourself against his mouth.  “Oh, god!” you moaned.  You felt him grin against you, and you settled back against the bed.  He parted your lower lips with his tongue and set a rhythm:  alternating between slipping his tongue into you, lapping up your essence, and sucking on your tender bundle of nerves.  

As if it didn’t feel amazing on its own, the sounds Barba was making would have been enough.  He sighed and groaned, and he ate you like a starving man.  Every so often, he paused and pulled away, pressing his face against your inner thigh, panting.  Then he dove back in, putting his mouth to a different task than his usual sarcastic banter and courtroom elocution.

You melted under his touch, and an unfamiliar feeling began to build in the pit of your stomach, like a growing tension that made you try to squirm against him.  Suddenly, he stopped.

“That’s been about a minute,” he said.  His voice sounded shaky.  “Should I keep going or….” He trailed off, and you could hear the knowing smirk in his voice.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Please…”

He plunged back in, his nose brushing against your clit as he lapped at you.  You grasped at the sheets, twisting them in your fists as the tension returned to your core, building and building.  Barba kept up his ministrations, and then you felt a finger at your entrance.  He slid it in slowly, until he was fully submerged in you.  You tensed up for a moment, and he pulled off of your clit with a wet smack.  “Just relax,” he whispered, his breath tickling you.  He shifted his forearm that had been across your hips, reaching up to drag his thumb against your nipple.  You shuddered, then focused on relaxing.

He returned to his pattern, multitasking between rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and licking your core, and gently sliding one finger in and out of your tight sheath.  You relaxed with a moan, and he added another finger, stretching you out carefully.  It felt amazing, and deliciously intimate, and the coil in your belly tightened to an uncomfortable degree.

“Barba,” you warned breathlessly.  “I….”

“I know,” he said, his voice husky.  “Cum for me, cariño.”  He gave you one final swipe of the tongue along your slit, then replaced his mouth with his thumb.  He plunged his two fingers into you and pressed his thumb firmly along your clit. The sudden pressure against your nub was too much, and you felt the tension in you snap in an explosion of pleasure.  

You clasped a hand over your mouth, biting into the meaty part at the heel of your hand, stifling your scream.  You arched off the bed, and you wrapped your legs right around his shoulders, pulling him against you as your first orgasm thundered through your body.  Your legs trembled, and your vision went white with sparks.  You were dimly aware of Barba, coaxing you through it.  As it subsided, he gently disentangled himself from your now-limp legs and came to join you on the bed.  He pulled you up so that you were no longer half-hanging off.  He was quiet while he waited for you to catch your breath.

* * *

His only regret was that he let you turn the lights off.  He so wanted to watch you cum for the first time.  And if he’d known you were going to stifle your scream, he would have reached up and stopped you.  If he couldn’t watch you, he wanted to hear you.  Then again, he thought, he barely was able to keep himself from cumming, just from going down on you.  He had to pause a few times to get himself under control.  Of course, the torturous foreplay of you undressing him hadn’t helped. The agonizingly slow disrobing paired with your suddenly brave admissions made him painfully hard.

He lay beside you, his hand lightly holding your wrist.  He could feel your erratic pulse and smiled, knowing that he was the cause.  He was glad for the break, actually.  It gave him more time to get his own arousal under control.  He could still taste you on his tongue, though, and smell your uniquely feminine scent from where it had coated his mouth and lips.

You gave a big sigh, finally recovered.  He reached over and stroked your face, and you turned to face him in the dark.

“That was amazing,” you whispered in awe.  “Is it always like that?”

He considered your question for a moment.  No, it wasn’t always like that.  He thought about his own sexual history.  With Yelina, there was criticism about his stamina, but he’d been young and clumsy. Later lovers varied, from the bored trust fund baby in college to the overly aggressive partner at his first job out of college, the one who tried to choke him out.  You were different, but he wasn’t sure he should tell you that. You were naked in his arms now, but he didn’t know what you were thinking about the future, if anything. For all he knew, this was just an itch that he was scratching.  If so, he was at least happy for this moment, even if it didn’t continue beyond this night.

Instead of answering you, he leaned over and kissed you, prying your lips open and slipping his tongue in so that you could taste yourself on him.  You moaned and slid your own tongue in his mouth, licking against him.  He smiled a bit – as your nervousness dissipated, you became bolder.  He liked it. A lot.

You reached down, and he felt you tentatively cup his clothed erection in your palm.  He hissed a sharp intake of breath, and you stroked his length. You broke the kiss and whispered, “Barba, I want you.”

He steadied his breathing. “Then I’m yours, Detective.”  He half-rose, and you helped him push his boxer briefs over his hips, laughing as he kicked them from his ankles.  He cut your laugh off by settling his weight on top of you, placing a knee between your legs to gently prize them apart. You whimpered when you felt his cock, heavy against your hip, bump against your still-sensitive entrance.

“You remember the rule,” he said.  “If you say stop….”

“You stop,” you finished. You placed your hands on his chest, digging your nails lightly into his skin.  “But if I say ‘don’t stop,’ does that mean you’ll never stop fucking me?”

He growled at the sudden profanity, dropping his head to the juncture of your neck, pressing his teeth against your pulse point.  He started to push forward, the crown of his cock slipping against your slick heat, then, with enormous effort, stopped.

“Do you have protection?” he panted.

“Condoms.  In the bedside table drawer,” you replied.  He pulled away from you reluctantly and fumbled in the dark for the drawer.  He found it, opened it, and pulled out the new box.  From the feel of it, it was an economy sized pack.  He grinned in the dark as he opened it and tore one off, opening the foil and rolling it onto himself.  “Did you buy these specifically for this purpose?” he asked playfully, settling back onto top of you.

He felt you nodding.  “Yes,” you replied seriously.  “I’ve only been doing a good job at work in the hopes of nailing the ADA.”

He dragged his hand up the side of your leg, over your hip and side, and settled it on the side of your face.  “I feel so used,” he murmured against your mouth.  You laughed softly, and he once again wished he could see your face.  He wanted to look you in the eye so that you knew he was serious now.

“I’m going to go slow,” he said.  “I will not hurt you, Y/F/N.”  He felt you nodding again, so he pressed your legs open and settled between them. He dragged the head of his cock up and down your wet heat, gathering your essence, then pushed the crown into you. Even through the condom, he felt the unbelievable heat of your core.  He kissed along your jawline and pushed in a bit further.

That’s how he proceeded, painfully slow.  His baser side wanted to plunge into you in one smooth motion, but the thought of hurting you was unacceptable.  So he pushed in a fraction at a time, then shifted to kissing your or kneading your breasts until you relaxed and he could proceed.  He gritted his teeth when your clenching pushed him to the edge of his own release.  You seemed to sense his conflict, and you laid a shaky hand on the forearm that braced him near your head.    
  
“I’m sorry it’s not very good,” you whispered. You sounded almost in tears, and he stopped, holding himself halfway inside of you.

“Y/F/N…” He stopped when he heard you choke back a sob.  “Oh, god, Y/F/N.”  He brushed his hand across your eyes, thumbing away one tear and then another. “It’s so good,” he assured you.  “You’re so good.  I just want to make it good for you.”

“Sorry,” you said again. He kissed you roughly, and the hand on your breast spasmed as he pawed at you.

“You keep apologizing,” he replied with mock sternness.  “You have nothing to apologize for, but if you insist on it, I’ll have to punish you.”

You scoffed at him, but he felt you relax under him again.  He kissed your lingering tears away, and you asked in a small voice, “what sort of punishment?”

He pushed forward, sliding another inch into your tight sheath.  “You have handcuffs here, I presume.”  He shifted between your legs and eased in another inch.  “I could cuff you to the bed…”  You lifted your hips a fraction, allowing him to slide in more. 

“That doesn’t sound like punishment to me,” you murmured in his ear.

“…and after I cuff you, I’ll sit on the edge of the bed and read from legal journals to you until you beg for forgiveness.”  You laughed at this, and he slid the rest of his cock into you, or at least as much as he felt comfortable giving you.  You moaned underneath him and drew your leg up alongside his hip.  You writhed under him, but he begged you to hold still for a minute.

“I’m so close,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Just hold still.”  You ran your fingers through his scalp, scratching him lightly until he propped himself up and started, ever so slowly, to thrust into you.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, setting a gentle pace of in and out against you.  He reached down and grasped the leg alongside him, twining it around his waist and holding it there.

“I feel….” You panted along with his thrusts.  “…. like you could split me in half.”  You dug your nails into his back, leaving half-moon indents.  

“I think you’re sturdier than that,” he replied.  “But I could try to, if you want.”

You groaned in his ear, and he felt the fire of your burning face radiating like a furnace.  “Jesus, Rafael.  You already made me cum once with your mouth….”

He froze instantly. You called him “Rafael.”  He could hear the gears turning in your head while you replayed what you had just said.  

“Is that okay?” you asked. “Or I can just call you Barba….”

He cleared his throat. “No, no.  Rafael is fine.”  Who was the last person to call him Rafael, other than family?  To everyone else, he was Barba.  If you called him by his first name, what did that mean about how you thought of him?  He smiled and picked up the pace, thrusting a bit faster now, still careful not to fully seat himself into you.

He couldn’t fool you though, the girl-genius detective.  “Rafael,” you purred in his ear.  “Are you holding out on me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he stammered, schooling his gentle back-and-forth into you.

Your hands on his back slid lower, reaching to cup his ass as you wrapped both legs around his waist now.  He stopped thrusting, and you tilted your hips up.  Digging your nails into his ass, you pulled him into you, those final few inches, so that he was fully buried to the hilt in you.  You shuddered against him, letting out a soft “oh” as the tip of his cock pressed against your cervix.  

“You okay?” he asked, panicking.  You answered him by fisting a handful of his hair and dragging his mouth to yours, kissing him sloppily until he started thrusting again, this time pulling halfway out and then pushing completely into you again.  Every time he filled you, you moaned – his name, pleas to god, unintelligible nonsense words.  He ground his pelvis into yours, grinding against your sensitive clit as he drove into you.  Your breathing was erratic, and he knew you were getting close again.  He shifted and removed your hand from his head, pinning it along your head, threading his fingers through yours.

“You feel so good, Y/F/N,” he whispered in your ear as he picked up the pace.  “I bet you’ll feel good cumming on my cock.”

“Oh, Rafael,” you moaned. “Please….”

“Cum with me,” he begged you.  He pushed firmly against your clit – once, twice.  The third time pushed you over the edge, and he fell with you.

He wished, one last time, for just a little light, just enough for him to lock eyes with you when you both came together.  You clenched around him, screaming through your release as you arched underneath him. He shouted at his own orgasm, driving into you as he came.

Gradually, you both recovered, panting and shaky and sweaty.  He dropped his head beside you, and let out a shaky breath by your ear.  He eased out of you, missing instantly the feeling of you surrounding him with your feminine core.  You lay there, silent except for your own uneven breathing.  

He was unnerved by your silence and suddenly was anxious.  “Was that okay?” he whispered.  He felt you turn your head on the pillow to face him.  You ran a hand over his forehead, pushing back a strand of tousled hair from his furrowed brow.

“Oh, Rafael,” you whispered back at him.  You ran your finger over his scowling eyebrows, smoothing out his worry lines, tracing your finger over his kiss-swollen lips.  You leaned forward and replaced your fingers with your own lips, feather light against his.  “You’re amazing.”

He lay there a moment, then climbed out of bed to remove the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the bathroom garbage before he returned to bed with you.  He crawled under the covers and wrapped you in his arms.  You nuzzled against him sleepily, inhaling his unique scent that rose from his bare chest.  He rubbed your back and you hummed contently.

“Good sex makes me sleepy,” you murmured against him.  “Who knew?” 

He chuckled.  “Is it okay if I stay the night?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you voiced. Before you fell asleep, you placed a gentle kiss on his chest, aiming for where his heart was.  “You can stay forever, if you want.”


	6. Chapter 6

You felt feverish.  You were warm – too warm.  You went to kick off the covers to cool yourself, but you gradually came awake when you realized you couldn’t move.  The thing locking you into place?  An arm, rippled with muscle, locked around your waist.  The hand attached to it comfortably cupping your breast under the covers.  It was a familiar arm, a familiar hand.

And the reason you were broiling alive in your own bed? A naked body pressed against yours, his chest to your back, his groin nestled against you, his leg thrown over both of yours. You tried to extricate yourself from his sleep-induced death grip on you, but he just grumbled something in his sleep and pulled you closer to him.  His face was buried against the back of your neck.  You could feel his breath, deep and steady as he slept.

Memories of the previous night ran through your head, and with them, a range of emotions.  Mortification at your own wanton behavior - you remembered some of the things you’d said in the heat of the moment.  Giddiness to have spent such an amazing night with Rafael.  A pleasant ache between your legs that grew the more you replayed the night in your mind.  And another emotion flitted through your head – a nervous tension of wondering what, if anything, would happen next.  Would he wake up and be disgusted with what had happened?  Would he leave and pretend it never happened? You could barely imagine a world where you and the handsome lawyer had slept together, and that  _had_ happened.  You couldn’t imagine him wanting anything more.

You felt him stir behind you as he began to wake up.  

“Mornin.’” His voice was thick with sleep.  He shifted a bit.  “What time is it?”

“Early, I think.”  You looked at the bedroom window – the edges of the blackout curtains were letting in a bit of faint light, so it must be just past dawn.  It was Saturday, and you had the day off, but you knew from past experience that Barba worked most Saturdays – and most Sundays, too. “What time do you need to go in?”

He buried his head in your hair and hummed.  “No set time.  I’ll have to run home and change.”  You could hear the smile in his voice.  “Can’t be showing up in the same suit two days in a row.”

You traced a finger up and down the arm wrapped around you. “You do have an image to maintain. ADA GQ.”

“Hmm,” he replied.  He nosed your hair, breathing deep.  “I heard you’re a fan of my suits.”

You snickered.  “Remind me to never tell Liv anything ever again.”  He shifted again, raising his head beside yours.  He dropped a chase kiss on your cheek, then sank back down on the pillow behind you.  Despite the uncomfortable heat upon waking up, you liked sleeping beside him. You really liked what led up to it, but falling asleep against him and snuggling now…. it was nice.  He seemed to enjoy it too, judging by his growing erection that was pressed against your backside.

“I have a bit of time before I have to go…” He trailed off and dragged his hand from your waist to a bit further south.  “If you’re okay with that, of course.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and bit back a moan as his shapely fingers found what they were looking for.  You opened your eyes and looked down – in the dim light of the room, you watched as his hand moved under the sheet to cup his hand against your tender parts.  You pressed back, grinding a bit against his erection, but he stilled you by capturing your earlobe between his teeth.

“Don’t worry about me,” he hissed in your ear.  “This is about you.”  You tensed against him, so he sucked on your lobe again, his breath heavy and wet in your ear.  His slid a finger between your lower lips, which were already wet from your earlier reminiscing.  He ran his index finger up and down your slit, chuckling at how slick you were.

“Is this for me?” he teased darkly.

You let out a shaky breath.  “You know it is.”

“Good.”  He picked up a rhythm, circling your clit with his finger.  He kissed the side of your neck, sucking on your pulse point. You moaned softly as you grew wetter, and he rubbed your sensitive nub faster and faster until you whined at him.

“Shhh,” he whispered.  “I’ve got you.”  He increased the pressure on you, pressing firmly against you with the pad of his finger, and your hips snapped forward.

“Oh,” you moaned, drawing it out.  Your legs shook as he pulled the orgasm from you.  Your eyes rolled back and you saw the now-familiar explosion of white sparks in your field of vision.  “Oh, Rafael.”  You reached down and gripped his wrist, digging your nails into his arm as you trembled against him.

He coaxed you through your conclusion, then pulled his hand away from you.  “Good girl,” he murmured in your ear.  

You rolled onto your back and looked at him for the first time since you turned off the light last night.  You could just make out his features in the faint light.  His hair, normally perfectly in place, was ruffled and stuck up at odd angles.  It took about ten years off of him, and his face, relaxed in your bed and free of worry lines, took off another ten.  You smiled and kissed him on the cheek.  Then you reached down to return the favor.

He stopped your hand before it reached its target, clasping it gently in his before laying it across his chest.  You could feel his heart beating under your palm.  He laid his hand over yours, resting in comfortable silence for a minute.  Then he turned to you.

“I should get going,” he said.  You turned your head to look up into his eyes, but you couldn’t read his expression.  You pulled your hand back.

“Sure,” you said, hiding your disappointment.  You tucked the sheet around you and fished over the side of the bed for your discarded clothes.  He watched you and laughed as you struggled to get dressed under the covers, but you didn’t laugh with him.  When you slid out from under the sheet, you were dressed – rumpled, and you had missed a button on your shirt, but you were dressed.  

You walked around the room, gathering his clothes, then handed them to him.  He sat up on the bed, the sheet wrapped around his waist.  He cocked his head at you.  “You okay?” he asked.

You stopped, standing over him.  “Yeah,” you said.  You hated how petulant you sounded, so you repeated yourself and tried to sound nonchalant.  “I had a good time,” you added.  You could feel him watching you and waiting for what you’d say next.  “I just hope I didn’t make it weird or ruin things. Since we work together….”  

He swung his legs around and placed his feet on the ground, his clothes hugged against him.  “Nothing’s ruined,” he said.  “I had a really good time too.”  He stretched a bare foot out along the floor and nudged you lightly in the shin.  “Okay?”

You nodded.  “Okay.”  You feigned a return kick at him and he dodged it with a smile.  “I’ll let you get cleaned up and dressed.”

When he joined you in your living room, he was pieced back together in a good semblance of his usual, dapper self.  He was only a little wrinkled and worse for wear.  He grabbed his coat from the back of your couch and walked over to you.  He reached up and grabbed a piece of your hair, twining it around his finger and tugging it gently.  Your mouth quirked into a half-smile, and he leaned in to kiss you on the corner of your lips.  

“Thanks for letting me stay the night,” he murmured. You felt the blush rising up your chest and neck, splotchy and red.

“Thanks for…bedding me well,” you replied.  He gave a bark of sudden laughter that made you smile in turn.

“Thanks for turning this into a Regency period novel,” he bantered.  “I’ll be leaving now, before the duke returns and discovers that I’ve bedded his finest wench.”  He gave your hair another gentle tug, then released it.  He snorted and shook his head at you, his green eyes twinkling with merriment.  He opened your front door and took a step out, then thought better of it and came back to lay a kiss on your lips, nipping the bottom one lightly.

“ _Bedding_ you,” he said shaking his head and grinning.  With that, he gave you a half wave and stepped out of your apartment, shutting the door behind him.  You walked over and stood by the door, listening to the fading sound of his shoes on the tile hallway and his laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

Monday morning had you on edge.  You were a reasonably good actress, considering how you wore different personas when dealing with assailants and victims alike. You could be blunt or mean, flirty or sweet.  Whatever the situation called for.  But you struggled to apply those skills to your personal life, and now your personal life was bleeding into your professional one.

You were in early, sifting through the new cases that the junior detectives had handled during the Max Lucas trial.  You were scanning them when Nick came in.  He plunked your coffee order in front of you – the two of you switch off on caffeine duty – and settled in at his desk.

“Good weekend, Y/L/N?” he asked.

You took a sip of your coffee.  “It was fine.  Uneventful. You?”

“I had Zara this weekend,” he replied as he logged into his computer.  “We went to the zoo.”

You smiled at him.  “That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“It was,” he agreed, smiling back at you.  Your partner could be a certified pain in your ass, but you loved that he was such as great father to Zara, always making time for her and putting her first.  His smile faded though, and you saw the ripple in his jaw as he clenched it.

“So uneventful weekend for you then?” he asked, his voice tight.  “Stayed in?”

You turned your attention back to your files. “Pretty much.”

The bullpen filled with a tense silence; the only sounds were you flipping through pages and Nick tapping his pen against the edge of his desk.

“You know,” he cut in suddenly.  “I never asked you how your happy hour with Barba went.”

You kept your face carefully neutral.  You knew Nick would circle around to that topic of conversation eventually.  He was like a dog worrying at a bone, especially when it came to the ADA. Barba could single-handedly end rape culture and Nick would still find a reason to clench his jaw, puff out his chest, and take a proverbial swing at the lawyer.  And Barba would do the same.  They were like male betta fish, blowing up for no reason other than the fact that another male – or Cuban – was nearby.

Luckily, you knew how to lie pretty well.  A valuable lesson you learned working with criminals was that the best lies were the ones as close to the truth as possible. It’s how the canny managed to beat lie detectors.  Tell the truth, or as much of it as you could.

“Happy hour was good,” you replied, your face as relaxed as you could make it.  Not a lie.

“Really?”  He narrowed his eyes.  “I can tell it was good.”  He gestured at the side of his neck.  “You have a little something right there….”

Face blank.  You knew he’d notice the hickey that Barba had laid on your throat. You’d tried to cover it with makeup that morning, but then it just looked like a hickey covered in makeup. So you wiped off the concealer and didn’t bother.  “Yeah, Barba did that.”  Not a lie.

“Really.”

“Yeah,” you said.  You flipped the folder in front of you open and pretended to read the case summary.  “We had a few drinks and then I took him back to my place and we had sex.”  You looked up at your partner, and the two of you stared at each other.  He was trying to read you, and you were able to hold his gaze because you hadn’t lied yet.

Nick narrowed his eyes at you, then declared, “You’re lying.”

You shook your head.  “I’m not.  We drank and talked.  He talked about scotch, and I talked about how when you and he square off, I imagine you both shirtless to keep it interesting.  Then we went back to my place, like I said.”  Not a lie either.

He rolled his eyes at you, then turned back to his computer.  “Whatever, Y/L/N.”

You got up and went over to his desk, sitting on the edge.  “Look, Nick. It was a rough week, so I went and got some cupping therapy over the weekend to help work out some tension.” You laughed and rubbed at the hickey like you were embarrassed.  “This is what happens when you use a coupon for a place in Chinatown.  My back is covered with bruises too.”  Finally, the lie you had rehearsed in your head on the subway ride over. 

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

You shrugged, your hands up in surrender. “You seemed certain that Barba…” You trailed off and shook your head. “Not that anything happened, but you’re not my dad, you know.”

He looked ashamed, and you continued.  “At best, you’re an annoying big brother.  And as such, you need to do what a big brother would do:  ignore your little sister’s imagined sex life and pretend it doesn’t exist. Comprende?”

He grimaced.  “Don’t say ‘sex life,’ Y/L/N.  Don’t make me imagine you and Barba.”

You pushed yourself off of his desk. “Imagine me and Barba what? Having sex?  Making passionate love?  Banging?”  You watched his face turn crimson, Catholic boy that he was.  “Poundtown, population two?”

“Stop,” he whined.  “I get the point.  No more assumptions.”

“Damned right,” you said, and you punched him hard in the upper arm to drive home the point.  You returned to your desk, your partner chuckling and rubbing his arm, and you got to work for real.  You knew everyone would notice the bruise on your neck, but you also knew that Nick would tell Amanda, and Amanda would tell Fin, and the lie would circulate through the bullpen with no more work necessary from you.

In truth, the morning had you on edge because you didn’t know how you’d act if – or when – you saw Barba.  After he left that morning, you spent the rest of the weekend replaying your time together in your head.  First the fun parts, then the embarrassing ones.  

Like your “bedding” comment.  He had been so close to leaving, and you had wanted to thank him for, well, having sex with you, but you couldn’t say “thanks for having sex with me.”  It was too blunt.  You likewise couldn’t say “fucking,” because that sounded dirtier somehow, “having intercourse” sounded too clinical, and “making love” sounded too romantic.  Your mouth settled on “thanks for bedding me,” and it had slipped past your lips before your brain realized it.  Per usual.

The rest of the team trickled in eventually, and you pushed your worries to the back of your mind and got to work.  Cragan called you and Nick into his office and walked you through your next assignment – a series of possibly-related missing women cases, with further possible links to cold cases.  A suspect, serving a life sentence at Rikers on unrelated charges, was indicating he might know something.  You and your partner worked out a strategy and took off running.

* * *

By the time Monday rolled around, Barba was practically kicking himself for how he acted the morning he left you.  Between the time he exited your building and the moment he strode into his office on Monday, he had picked up his phone about a million times and hovered his finger over your contact information.  Each time, though, he left your number undialed. And then he chastised himself. The cycle repeated all weekend.

You had fallen asleep so fast that night that he almost worried that you’d died, but your gentle snoring proved that you were still alive.  It had taken him longer to nod off.  In the darkness of the room, he had stroked your hair, occasionally burying his nose against your head and breathing in your scent.  You had nestled against him; your head fit perfectly in the space between his chin and his chest.

Being a lawyer, he had considered next steps. Points:  you were smart, funny, and kind; you were gorgeous.  You made his stomach lurch pleasantly when you walked into his office.  You made his heart race when he knew he was going to see you in your office.  You made his blood raise a degree or two when he thought about you twisting underneath him, naked.

Counterpoints:  you were younger than him.  Being smart, funny, kind, and gorgeous made you a catch for any man or woman with half a brain in their skull.  The biggest counterpoint of all:  every woman he’d ever dated or loved had left him.

Conclusion:  Could he picture a world where you were his?  Yes, but it wasn’t reality.  Eventually something would happen – you’d get tired of his work hours or lack of stamina – and you’d leave him just like all the others.

As he came to his conclusion, you had sighed contently in your sleep and curled against him tighter, you hand sleepily drifting from where it lay on his chest.  You wrapped your arm around his waist and squeezed him in your own embrace.

Yes, he thought before drifting off into his own slumber.  You were probably going to break his heart.

When he woke that next morning, you were both still entangled.  He was worried that you would wake up regretting the evening before – the light creeping through the edges of your curtains brought in a host of ugly thoughts. To his surprise, you were already awake, judging by the contented low humming at the back of your throat and your gentle tracing up and down his arm that gripped you around your torso.  So he pushed those ugly thoughts aside for a moment, long enough to bring you to an orgasm.  By the time you were recovered enough to reach for him, the ugly thoughts were back and he had stopped you.  He kept himself noncommittal, despite seeing the disappointment written plainly across your face when he went to leave.  If you hadn’t blurted out that ridiculous comment about him bedding you, he would have made it out free and clear.  He spent the weekend berating himself.  Sunday night, he laid out his second best suit and vowed to talk to you the next morning.

But Monday passed without seeing or talking to you. Tuesday, he was locked in meetings all day at his office.  Wednesday, he stopped in the bullpen to give Liv details for her grand jury testimony on a case.  Your coat and bag were there, but you weren’t.  By Thursday, he was in a quiet panic and placed a call to your desk phone – but you didn’t pick up, and he didn’t leave a message.  You were definitely avoiding him, he decided.  He could have called or texted your cell, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the thought of you seeing his name flash on your screen….and then ignoring it.  By Friday, he was out of clean three-piece suits and had to settle for his tan two piece. He paired it with a green tie and suspenders, hoping it brought out his eyes if he managed to catch you.

He strode into the precinct Friday evening.  He and Liv were going out to dinner, so he had a completely plausible reason for being there.  His heart was thudding in his chest as he rounded the corner to the bullpen, and his spirits instantly sank.  You coat was gone, and your computer was locked away, your desk bare. He had missed you.

He hadn’t missed Amaro though.  The detective sat at his desk, glaring at Barba.  “She’s gone,” he spat out.

“Who, Liv?” Barba responded cheekily.  “We’re going to dinner, so she better still be here.”

Amaro stood and walked over to the ADA.  “I know what you and Y/L/N are up to,” he said.

Barba swallowed hard, but he kept his voice level. “And what are we up to, exactly?”

Amaro sneered and rolled his eyes.  He pointed to his neck.  “I know she got that bruise from some massage place in Chinatown.” He narrowed his eyes.  “She tell you to come here and rile me up?”

Barba snorted a sarcastic laugh.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Inwardly, he wondered what you had been playing at with your partner.  Had you told him about your night together?  Or had you lied to avoid being embarrassed?

“You tell Y/L/N that I’m not falling for it,” the detective continued.  He stared Barba down for a minute, then marched back to his desk with a huff. Barba stared after him in confusion, but Liv came out of Cragan’s office a minute later and saved him the effort of dealing with Nick.  She wrapped up her work and left with Barba, leaving the angry detective to stew at his desk alone.

Dinner was at a new spot that featured a seasonal menu, pretentious drinks, and a wait staff of gorgeous failed models that vacillated between ineptitude and downright boredom.  Barba and Liv sat at their table and gave their drink orders to a willowy blonde with razor sharp cheekbones.  The two chatted amiably as they scanned their menus.  Liv had taken the sergeant’s exam, and Barba updated her about the latest gossip in his building.  The waitress brought their drinks and took down their food order before wandering off to talk with the bartender.

Barba watched her go.  “You know, I don’t think she put our order in at the kitchen,” he remarked.  “We may be here a while.”

“No wonder it’s impossible to get a reservation here,” Liv observed as she sipped her reimagined dry martini.  “It takes five hours to get your food.”

Barba snorted.  He tapped his fingers on the tabletop and relaxed after his tense week.  He wanted desperately to ask Liv about you, but with her razor-sharp intuition, she broached the topic for him.

“So I heard a story that Y/L/N got into a fight at an exotic massage parlor during a stakeout,” Live said.  Barba responded by taking a sip of his scotch (“ _chilled with pieces of lunel marble for an enhanced palate experience_ ,” the menu had proclaimed).  When he didn’t answer, she continued, “or at least that’s the story she probably spread to cover the giant hickey on the side of her neck.”

Barba choked on his drink, spitting most of it back into his glass.  Liv smiled and cocked her head to the side.  “You okay?”

“Why would you think she spread a story?” he wheezed as he struggled to catch his breath.

“No reason,” she replied.  “Just that there was no massage parlor stakeout, and if there was, why would we send in a woman as a plant?”  She shook her head with a laugh.  “For a building full of detectives, it was disturbing how quickly they bought that story.”

Barba smiled into his drink, but then his grin fell. “What did Amaro say about this story?”

Liv shrugged.  “I haven’t really seen him all week.  He and Y/L/N have either been at Rikers, sweating a prisoner, or on the 6th floor in the cold case records room.”  She filled him in on the details of the cases you were working on linking.  As she did, the waitress brought out their food.

“Pretty sure I ordered the chicken,” Liv said, spearing a shrimp dripping in sauce.  “But I’m starving so I’ll let it pass.”

The two started eating.  Barba took a bite of his steak – it wasn’t terrible, even if it was a bit too dry.  Liv worked on her shrimp.  Between bites, she asked him how his date with you went.

Barba cringed.  “It went really well,” he said.  “But I already screwed it up, I think.”  Leaving it intentionally vague, he told her about your evening together and how he had failed to call you since he left you a week ago.  And how he now suspected that you were avoiding him.

Liv shook her head in sympathy.  “She’s not ducking you, Rafa.  She’d been slammed with this new case load.  I barely saw her this week, but I can tell you one thing: every time I looked over at her, she was checking her cell phone.”

Barba sighed.  “It’s for the best.  It wouldn’t work out in the long run anyway.”

“You’re right,” Liv agreed.  “Two smart people like you two would never work out. You’re incredibly stubborn, and she’s only a little stubborn.”

“Smart ass,” he mumbled around a bite of steak. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then slid his plate away.  

He was secretly pleased that Liv didn’t dismiss you as a couple outright.  She was pretty no-nonsense about relationships, so if she thought something wouldn’t work out, it usually meant it wouldn’t.  

The waitress came to their table to clear their dishes and hand them a dessert menu.  

“Anything look good to you?” Liv asked.  He scanned the menu and found something.  

“Yes,” he replied.  “But I’m full, so I’ll order it to go.”

* * *

You were on your couch, in your most comfortable pajamas, and wrapped up in your fluffiest blanket like a burrito.  Your TV was playing a marathon of your favorite baking show, the one you watched when you needed to forget your own life for a while. Instead of investigating awful crimes, you pretended you lived in the baking tent on the quaint English countryside with exceedingly polite and kind fellow bakers.

In theory, you loved the work you did this week. You and Nick had dug up a slew of cold cases and had started to connect the pieces like an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

The problem was, it wasn’t a puzzle, but peoples’ lives.  As the links became clearer, you knew you’d have to start knocking on doors and digging up their pain.  If you solved the case, it could give them closure…. but if you didn’t, you were only reopening old wounds.

You drew the edge of your blanket up to your chin and focused on the new episode starting, chuckling darkly to yourself. It was sweet dough week, and that always led to drama.  The first challenge had just started (a sweet tea loaf using yeast) when there was a knock at your door.

* * *

He nearly turned around when he reached your building, but when he noticed the front door propped open with a soda can, he considered it kismet.  He took the stairs to your floor slowly and found himself in front of your door.

Through your door, he could hear the muffled sounds of your TV.  And you, giggling.  It made him smile, and before he could stop himself, he was knocking.  The TV noise stopped, and he heard you pad to the door. Then it swung open.

He gave you a small smile that you didn’t return. Instead, you popped your head out of your doorway and looked down the hall.

“How’d you get in?” you asked.

“Front door was open,” he responded.  “What were you laughing at?”

You gave an evil cackle, pointing over your shoulder with your thumb towards the TV.  “This guy is making a sweet tea loaf with hemp flour.”  You looked up at him, your eyes bright with merriment.  “It is  _not_ going to go well.”

He peered over your shoulder – some cooking show, he guessed, judging from the muted TV screen – then he peered at you.  “Can I come in?”

You dropped your own gaze to the bag in his hand. “What’s that?”

“An apology.”  He handed it to you, and you glanced in to see the take out container. You stepped aside, gesturing with your arm for him to enter.

You shut the door, then walked past him into the kitchen.  He followed close at your heels and watched you open the container.

“It’s a key lime panna cotta,” he said, nervous. “I wasn’t sure what you liked…or if you even like dessert….”

You opened a drawer.  “You want to split this?” you asked.  He shook his head, so you pulled out a spoon.  You leaned against the counter and dug in.  He leaned against the island opposite you and watched in silence, his palms sweating.  This was a terrible idea, he realized.  As you focused on eating, he looked you over.  It was the most he’d ever seen of you.  Your hair was loose and damp from a recent shower, and the bruise on your neck was already fading to a yellow and blue splotch.  You wore thick socks on your feet, a pair of flannel sleep shorts, and white t-shirt with flowing font that strained ever so slightly against your breasts.  He snickered when he read what was written on your shirt – _Bride Vibes_ , it said.

“When’s the big day?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at your chest.  You looked up, mid-bite, with a confused expression.  Then you looked down at yourself and laughed, breaking the stony silence.   _Finally_ , he thought.

“Clearance rack,” you explained.  “No one ever sees me when I’m sleeping, and it’s really soft cotton.”  You demonstrated by rubbing the hem between the index finger and thumb on your free hand. He reached out and did the same, careful not to touch your skin.

“It is soft,” he agreed.  He kept the edge of your shirt pinched in his hand, then looked up into your eyes.  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

“It’s okay,” you said.  You dropped your eyes back down to your dessert.  “I don’t have any….expectations, you know.”

He dropped the hem of your shirt and leaned back again.  “Is that why you told Amaro that you got your hickey fighting at a massage parlor?”

You brayed with surprised laughter, throwing your head back.  “Is that what he told you?”  Barba explained his conversation with Liv and his earlier encounter with Amaro while you shook your head, laughing the whole while.

“SVU is a pit of gossip, but that’s just embarrassing,” you said.  “It’s like a bad game of telephone.”  You filled the ADA in on your original conversation with Amaro, speculating at how the story mutated with each telling.  “The important thing is, your tracks are covered,” you finished.  

Barba sighed and dropped his head for a moment. “I wanted to call you, many times. I just…didn’t.”  He raised his head to look at you.  “I  _did_ tell you that I hadn’t….drank scotch much myself lately, if you remember.”

You nodded.  “It really is okay.  I don’t have any expectations, like I said, but I did enjoy my time with you last weekend.”

“Me too,” he replied.  “And for what it’s worth, I’m here now.”

“You are,” you countered thoughtfully.  You took another bite of the panna cotta. “This is good, by the way.  You sure you don’t want any?  Last bite?  It’s all yours.”  You rattled the container at him.  He took a half-step towards you and took the container from your hand.  He spooned the last bite into his mouth, savoring the tang of citrus and burst of sugar on his tongue.  

“It is good,” he replied.  “Makes up for the overcooked steak I had there.”  You stood in front of him, leaned against the counter, just watching him.  He tried to read your expression, but your eyes were curiously unreadable.  Your mouth betrayed you though.  As you stared at him, your eyes dropped to his lips for a split second; your tongue crept out and licked your own lower lip, pulling it into your mouth for a moment before releasing it.  He took a deep breath and made another half-step towards you.  He watched your chest hitch with a sharp intake of breath.

He sat the used spoon on the counter behind you, then he dragged his thumb through the bit of melted panna cotta in the bottom of the container.  He raised it to your mouth and pressed the tip of his thumb, coated in sugary syrup, against your lips.  You stared at him levelly, your eyes still unreadable, but you parted your lips all the same.  He slid his thumb in your mouth.   He groaned inwardly as you tongued off the sugar, then sucked gently on his digit, pushing your mouth forward until it was buried up to the second knuckle.  You swirled your tongue around it, biting your teeth down gently before you pulled back and released it with a soft popping sound.

He crashed against you in a riot of grasping hands and open mouth, pawing at you like a drowning man.  You pulled him against you, moaning at his erection pressed against your lower belly as he devoured your mouth, tonguing you roughly. He tangled his hand in your damp hair and pulled it until your head was tilted just so.  He broke away from your mouth and pressed a trail of rough kisses down the side of your neck, pausing at the healing bruise, where he laid a gentle one to avoid re-injuring you.

“I’m sorry about this,” he murmured against your neck.  You smelled like whatever soap you used, and he nuzzled your soft skin with his nose. “I guess I got carried away.”

You breathed heavily against him and laughed breathlessly.  “There’s one on my leg too that’s even bigger,” you huffed.  “There’s visible teeth marks.”

Barba pulled away from you and made himself look angry.  “You left some decent scratch marks on my back, detective.”

“Sure,” you scoffed.  “And no one will know about them unless you go to trial shirtless.” You paused for a moment, then added, “That might work though, as a strategy.  Judge Patano seemed to especially enjoy your S&M show during Adam Cain’s trial.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” he whispered. His free hand crept under your shirt, his knuckles ghosting over your belly before he slid up to cup one of your breasts.  He ran his thumb over your erect bud, stroking it and making you moan.  You leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss under his you’re your lips soft against his stubble.  His hand released your breast and drifted down, slipping out from under your shirt and over the flannel of your sleep shorts.  He rested his hand on your mound, cupping you, and he felt your growing dampness through the cloth.

“Is this all for me?” he asked, his voice rough. He could feel your face growing hot from where it was pressed against his neck, but he didn’t care.  He could feel his heart hammering away, making his pulse thunder in his temples and pooling blood to his agonizingly hard cock. “Were you thinking of me before I got here?  Imagining me touching you…” He slipped his hand under the waistband of your shorts. “…just like this?”  He slid a single finger against your soaked crease, then pushed it slowly but steadily into you.  He paused half a moment as you sighed against his throat and circled your arms around his neck.  Your face, he could tell, was on fire, and he stroked it by pumping his finger in and out of you, sawing it against your swollen and slick lower lips.  You rocked your hips against him, and the two of you stayed like that until he heard your breathing getting ragged.  Then he stopped and pulled his hand away.  You gave a frustrated whine, and he gently fisted your hair again and pulled your head away until you were facing him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, his eyes narrowed.  “Were you thinking about me?”

You nodded, but didn’t say anything.  Your pupils were wide with lust.

“I need you to use your words, Y/F/N,” he said softly. “I want to hear you say it.”

Your face was crimson, but you looked him square in the eyes.  “Yes, I was thinking about you, counselor.”

He lowered his voice and continued.  “So when you were thinking about me, what happens next?”

“I don’t…I’m not….” You stammered.  You shook your head from side to side, as if you were clearing your head and trying to think straight.  “You’d…I mean, we’d go….”  You trailed off and gestured towards your bedroom.

He leaned over you and placed his mouth by your ear so that his breath would brush against you.  “What happens next is, I’m going to carry you into that bedroom and fuck you senseless.”  You let out a strangled whimper and in one smooth motion, he reached down and grabbed the backs of your thighs, forcing you to hop into his arms and wrap your legs around him. He latched his arms under your backside, grinding his erection into your core, relishing the molten heat that he could feel even through several layers of clothes.  You circled your arms around his neck tightly and he carried you into the bedroom.  Once there, he laid you down gently, disentangling your arms and legs from around him.  He straightened up and stood over you.

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Your hair, curled and damp from your earlier shower, was fanned around your head.  Your eyes were bright, and your lips were swollen from his earlier rough kisses.  He looked down and saw the bite mark on your inner thigh, and you had been right – there were visible teeth marks.  Identifying him as the person who had claimed you.  The thought was incredibly erotic, and it made his cock throb.

He started to strip, pulling off his coat, slipping his tie over his head.  He unbuttoned his shirt and shucked it onto the floor, and he made short work of the rest until he was standing over you in just his boxer briefs.  He had loved you undressing him before, but he knew if he let you do that again – so painfully slow and sweet – he’d finish in his pants before he even properly started.

“You remember the rules,” he said sternly.  “If you say stop, I stop.  If you like what I’m doing, you let me know.  And,” he continued, “I propose a new rule.”

“What?” you whispered.

“That you let me keep a light on so that I can see you,” he said.  He knelt on the bed and stretched himself over you, but held his body away from yours in a sort of push-up.  He leaned down and, with his teeth, captured your erect nipple through the cloth of your shirt.  The sudden sensation made you arch underneath him with a tortured groan.  He removed his mouth.  “I want to watch you cum, and I want you to see me watching you.”

You shook your head.  “I’m embarrassed,” you admitted.  “I think the only person to see me naked is probably my doctor.”

He moved over and laid beside you, facing you.  He dragged his fingertips up and down your arm, soothing you.  “Counter-offer then.”  He nodded at the lamp on your bedside table.  “We turn off the overhead light, turn on the lamp, and lay a piece of cloth over it to dim it a bit.  Best of both worlds, a little light and a little shadow.”

You considered his offer, biting your lip, then nodded your agreement.  He helped you stand up.  You went to your dresser and pulled out a blue scarf, then turned on the bedside lamp, draping the cloth over the shade.  Barba turned off the overhead, and the room was plunged into semi-darkness. His eyes started to adjust but it was still mostly shadow.

“Is this okay?” he asked.  You nodded again.

“Good,” he replied.  He reached out and grabbed the bottom of your t-shirt, making as if to remove it for you.  He paused and looked at your face for permission, which you granted by lifting your arms over your head.  He pulled the shirt over your head and kissed your upper arms as they were raised.  He tossed the shirt aside and continued kissing you – up your arms and shoulders, across your collarbone, in the hollow of your throat.

He picked you up again, repeating the motion from the kitchen, and laid you back down on the bed, drinking in your half naked form with his eyes.  Your nipples were a dusky pink, and they were prickled and hard.  You watched him studying you under half-lidded eyes, as if you were embarrassed but too curious to see what he’d do next.

What he did next was to remove his boxers, kicking them into a corner.  His erection sprang free, and your eyes widened as you looked upon it.  “No wonder it hurt afterwards,” you muttered to yourself, but he caught the words.  He knelt on the bed and crawled his way up to you, kissing you softly on your lips, lying beside you and hovering his face over yours.    
  
“Did I hurt you before?” he asked.  He was upset – he had never wanted to hurt you, and he cursed himself for being too rough before.

You reached up and did that thing he liked, smoothing away his worry lines with your soft hand.  “It was a good kind of hurt,” you admitted.  “Like how you can be sore after a good run.”

He chuckled.  “So I gave you a workout last time, did I?”

You smiled, then pulled his mouth to yours.  You ghosted your lips over his, almost touching but not quite.  “Every time I sat down, it ached,” you purred.  “Reminded me of how deep you were in me.”  He groaned, and you continued.  “But then it went away, so I really would like you to fuck me like that again.”  You rose up a fraction and kissed him, hard, then slid your hand down between your body and his to grasp his erection.  You ran your hand lightly up and down it, tracing a finger around the tip.  

Barba growled and captured your mouth with his, thrusting his tongue deep into you, tasting the last bit of citrus on you. He pictured you sucking on his thumb earlier, remembering how you had looked at him steadily as you worked your tongue against him.  He imagined himself on his back, you hovering over him and putting your mouth to the same purpose on his cock, but he pushed the image aside.  He assumed you were inexperienced in that regard, but he didn’t think he’d last either way.  That could wait.  Right now, he wanted to fuck you, just as you had requested.  

He pushed your hand off of him and rose up over you. He pushed your sleep shorts down roughly, leaving you completely naked underneath him.  He only took a moment to enjoy the sight – you were writhing, your hands uselessly grabbing bunches of the sheets – before reaching for the night stand and pulling out a condom.  The two of you watched each other – you watched him roll the condom onto himself, he watched your chest rise and fall with each deep breath you pulled – until he was ready. He settled over you, and you opened your legs to him.  You reached down and took him in your hand, guiding him to your entrance.

He laid some of his weight onto you, pressing a kiss to your lips before remarking, “you’re an old pro at this now.”  

You laughed and squirmed against him until the tip of his cock slipped between your lips and into you.  You both groaned at the sensation, pausing for a moment before proceeding.  You looked him in the eye, brave in the dim blue light from the lamp.  “Let’s just say that I thought about this,” you murmured. “A lot.”

He pushed into you in a smooth motion, stopping when he was halfway in, watching your face for any sign of pain.  Your eyelids fluttered, and your mouth dropped open in an “oh.”  Your breasts were pressed against his chest, and your hands stroked his back and shoulders.

“Is that okay?” he whispered.  Your licentious pillow-talk aside, he really didn’t want to cause you pain.  It occurred to him that maybe you were faking it, that maybe you were pushing past discomfort for the sake of gaining experience.  Before he could follow this line of inquiry, though, you answered him.

“I’m fine,” you said.  “But you have to stop teasing me like this.”  You swiveled your hips upwards at his, trying to find some friction and whining in frustration when you couldn’t.  So he pushed the rest of his cock into you, slowly but steadily. A strangled sob tore from your throat, and your head rocked to the side as your hands clawed at his back.

“Don’t stop,” you begged him.  He started to thrust, carefully at first.  He pulled himself nearly all the way out, then pressed back in, slowly, embedding himself in your tight core.  You weren’t nearly as tense as last time, but you still gripped him like a fist, and he had to concentrate to delay his own release.  He tried to think of the least erotic things he could – tort reform, sentencing minimums, lists of misdemeanors.  

You were panting beneath him, making his concentration difficult.  He kissed you across your face – your forehead and cheeks, your chin – and then picked up the pace of his thrusts.  You started pushing back against him, gaining an extra fraction of how much of himself he could bury in you.

“You feel so good,” you said, your voice thick with lust. You removed one hand from his back and gripped his bicep that was bracing him alongside your head.  Your other hand drifted to his hip, helping guide his pelvis as he drove into you.  “I’m so close, Raf.”

He grunted, driving harder now.  He was close too.  He plunged into you, grinding into your tilted pelvis and the sensitive bundle of nerves near where the two of you were joined in searing wet heat.  He reached up with his free hand and grabbed your jaw, turning your head from its side and forcing you to face him.  Your eyes were wide as they stared into his, and you bit your lower lip as he thrust into you.  “I want to see you cum, Y/F/N,” he panted.  “Don’t you dare turn away from me.”

Your face screwed up in a semblance of pain, your eyes squeezed tight as he delivered a rough thrust that triggered your release. He felt it first in your core, your sheath bearing down and gripping him so tightly that he fell off the cliff with you. He gave one final push, deep, and gave in to his orgasm, watching you cum too.  “Open your eyes,” he said, shuddering and thrusting haphazardly.  “Look at me, Y/F/N.”  

You sobbed against him, your legs drawn up alongside his thrusting hips, trembling.  “Rafael,” you cried.  You opened your eyes and looked into his, struggling to focus on him as they rolled back into your head, your eyelids fluttering.  The look on your face was one of complete surrender; he’d never seen anything like it. The sight prolonged his own orgasm, making his vision go black for a second.  He wondered dimly what you were seeing in his eyes, if anything.

He collapsed on top of you, pressing your trembling body into the mattress with the full force of his weight.  It took a moment for him to recover, and he slipped out of you and rose on shaky legs to go dispose of the condom.  When he returned, you had covered yourself with the sheet, and you watched him walk over to the bed and sit on the edge of it.

“Okay?” he asked, a bit shyly.  He took your nearest hand and grasped it gently, stroking the palm with his other hand.

“Mmm,” you replied agreeably.  You let out a deep, contented sigh, then half rose on the bed, removing your hand from his.  “You heading out?”  He could tell you were trying to sound nonchalant, and it hurt him to know that you were acting how you thought he wanted you.

“Yeah,” he said.  He watched the disappointment ghost across your face, and then watched you bring your features under control.  He sat a moment and waited for his still-racing pulse to slow down.  “But if you’re okay with it, I could stay….”

He smiled when he saw the happiness flood your face, and he reached over and stroked the back of your head, tracing his fingertips down the back of your neck and over the knobs of your spine.  You moved over in the bed, making room for him, and he crawled into the warm space you had just vacated.  He turned off the lamp, and settled in, pulling you against him so that your head rested on his chest.  He stroked your back and smiled again at the contented hum that he drew out of you.


	8. Chapter 8

Your current case was frustrating.  Not that you had many cases that weren’t – all the easy ones, like subway masturbators and Central Park flashers went to the junior SVU detectives who operated in the background most of the time.  The tough and frustrating ones went to your team.

You and Nick were working a string of missing women that had significant links to a number of cold cases.  A Rikers lifer had reached out via his lawyer with information, so you and your partner found yourselves bouncing across the city, digging through cold case files and re-interviewing family members.  

Cragan was fed up.  It had only crossed his desk because many of the missing women were likely special victims – many had rap sheets for solicitation, and there were a number of runaways too.  He couldn’t deny that you and Nick were building a compelling case – but it was all circumstantial at this point.  There wasn’t even a body, technically.

With nothing but similar victims with similar stories of disappearing, there was no need for you to see Barba during work hours.  You missed it.  You and Carmen were friendly, and you missed joking with her about her boss’s grumpy moods. You missed walking into his office and the little drop you got in your stomach when you saw him, like when you rode roller coasters and hit the first big hill.  You missed walking him through your cases and the back-and-forth about legalities versus evidence.  

You hadn’t seen him in your non-work hours either.  He texted you a few times, just simple messages to check in and thank you for the night together, but that was it.  You wondered if the thing between you two – whatever it may be – was just a weekend hookup.  You weren’t sure how to tell.  Normally, you’d talk to Liv and Amanda.  But Liv was too astute.  If you started chatting to her about hypothetical hookup situations, she’d see right through you. And if you did the same with Amanda, she’d grill you for details until you slipped up.

You were in the cold case storage area on the 6th floor of your building, sifting through another aisle in search of a case.  The room was a mess, and you made a note that if you ever became a captain that you’d clean up records.  Nick was in Brooklyn, talking to a sister of a potential victim, so you were on your own:  climbing up shelves, stirring up dust, sneezing.

You checked one more shelf, then decided to give up for a while.  There was plenty of other cases to look over, databases to search and index.  You swiped a hand across your running nose, sniffling at the dust, and left the room. You took the stairs down two floors and entered the hallway to the bullpen, past the elevators.  You rubbed your eyes, red and irritated by the motes of dust.  Then you heard a voice behind you, calling your name.

It was Barba.  He was exiting the elevator, and he caught up to you.  “Detective,” he said with a smirk.  “Working hard?”

You looked down at yourself.  The front of your shirt and pants were streaked with dust, and you knew that you looked like a wreck, based on your running nose and swollen eyelids. “Morning,” you said, your voice nasal and congested.  You glanced at your watch and saw the time.  “Or afternoon, I guess.”

He looked debonair, as always.  He was in his dark blue suit this time, with the waistcoat and the grey tie. You would have blushed or been turned on, but you had baser needs at the moment:  your stomach rumbled, and Barba’s smirk widened.  You rolled your eyes at him and you both walked into the bullpen together.  You settled in at your desk and Barba went into Cragan’s office.  

“Any luck?” Amanda asked from across the aisle.  She’d been helping a bit with the case, running searches on various police databases.

“Nope,” you responded.  Your stomach growled again, and you considered your options.  You could skip lunch or you could dance with the devil and eat a vending machine sandwich.  You were deep in thought, weighing the odds of your intestinal integrity versus a ptomaine chicken salad on wheat, when Barba swam into your field of vision and startled you.

“Up for a working lunch?” he asked.  “My treat.”

You looked around the bullpen.  “I really can’t.  I have to keep working on this.”  You smiled apologetically, but your captain came out of his office and caught your conversation.

“Y/L/N, go eat.”  You started to protest, but he cut you off.  “That’s an order.”

Your stomach grumbled again and you decided not to protest.  You stood up and grabbed your coat.  “Thanks, Cap.”

He waved you away.  “Don’t thank me.  I just don’t want to deal with the workers comp paperwork if you pass out from hunger.”

Barba took you to a hole-in-the-wall deli nearby.  You both ordered, then you went into the restroom to wash your hands.  Looking at yourself in the mirror, you winced.  Your eyes were red and swollen, your hair was a rat’s nest of a messy bun, and you had a dark smudge of dirt across your forehead.  You scrubbed it away with a damp paper towel and then raked your fingers through your hair before tying it back up, hoping to at least look presentable.

When you returned to your table, your food was waiting for you.  Barba was waiting too, his sandwich untouched.  It wasn’t until you were seated and eating your own sandwich that he tucked into his.  You smiled around your mouthful of tomato and mozzarella.  He was a consummate gentleman.

“So tell me about this case that you and the boy wonder are building,” he said. You snorted at his nickname for Amaro. “When I dropped off Cragan’s paperwork, he told me to be on standby in case you needed me.”

Between wolfish bites, you filled him in.  He nodded, sitting back in his chair, and gave you things to consider - tips for greasing the skids and reducing tension between the dick measuring contest that was the five boroughs.  You knew how to soothe egos from your time in the FBI, but you appreciated Barba’s knowledge about the politics of New York City’s legal system.

You finished your sandwich and sighed contentedly.  You had been starving and hadn’t even realized it. The case was starting to take over your life, as they usually did.  Barba leaned forward with a smirk and reached across the table to brush a bread crumb from the corner of your mouth.  It wasn’t a suggestive gesture; it was more like the kindly action of one friend helping another.

“Thanks,” you said, giving your mouth another swipe with your napkin.  

“No problem,” he said, sitting back again.  “I waited until you were done eating though.  Didn’t want to lose a hand.”

You balled up your napkin and feigned tossing it at him, and he threw up his hands playfully to block it.  You glanced at your watch again and sighed.  “I should head back.”

He stood up and waited for you to put on your coat, then you both walked out together.  He walked with you to the corner, then you turned to go your separate ways.  

“Thanks for lunch,” you said.  You weren’t looking forward to an afternoon back in cold case, but at least you got to see him.  He nodded. 

“No problem,” he replied.  You turned to make your way back to the precinct, but he reached out and grabbed the sleeve of your coat.  You stopped and looked at him, and he hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“I was wondering if you wanted to meet up after work on Friday,” he asked, suddenly shy.  “I’d like to take you out to dinner.  If that sounds like something you might like,” he added lamely.  He dropped his hold on your sleeve.  You could barely stop the grin from splitting your face in half, so you bit the inside of your cheek to stop it.

“That would be nice,” you said.  You kept your voice level.  “Shall I meet you at the restaurant, or….” You trailed off.

“How about I pick you up at your place?  I’ll text you the details tomorrow once I find a place.”

“That would be nice,” you repeated.  You allowed the smile to creep across your face, and Barba mirrored it with his own grin.

“’Til then, detective,” he said.

“Til then, counselor.”  You waved and turned towards the precinct, waiting about half a block before you allowed the excitement to put a noticeable spring in your step.  You thought about what you should wear.  You considered the possibility of buying new lingerie, something sexy but tasteful.  Or at the very least, matching.  You wondered if it were possible to broach the subject with Amanda, to get her opinion without her speculating wildly or gossiping with Nick.

Suddenly the cold case room didn’t seem so bleak.

* * *

He made the reservation for the perfect restaurant – intimate, not too pretentious, with excellent food.  It was the type of place you could sit for hours and talk.  He enjoyed your last evening together –much of it played on a constant loop in his head – but he wanted to show you that you weren’t just a hookup.  He texted you the details, and you responded with “see you then!”  Then he got back to work.

The rest of the week flew by.  He was going to trial the following week on a case of Fin and Amanda’s, so he was buried in prep work.  His work days bled into evenings, then into his nights.  It was a high-profile case, a prominent doctor accused of sexually assaulting patients under anesthesia.  The press caught wind, which put more pressure on him.

By Friday afternoon, it was clear that he would have to cancel.  He tried to avoid it, working well into the nights prior to get caught up, but Jack McCoy stopped in his office every day and demanded more.  On Friday, he found himself at his desk, his tie loosened and his hair disheveled from running his handing through it.  He pulled out his phone and texted you the situation.  Then he hung his head.

You replied a moment later, and he considered ignoring it.  When he asked you out at the deli, he couldn’t miss the smile you were holding back.  When you parted, he turned to watch you walk away, practically skipping.  And now he was breaking the plans that had made you so happy.  He sighed and turned his phone over to read the screen.

_No problem.  I’m pretty exhausted from my week too.  Rain check?_

He let out the breath he’d been holding and typed his answer back.

_Absolutely!  Same time and place, next Friday?_

His phone chimed within seconds:  you said yes, and wished him a good weekend.

The next week, trial week, was a disaster.  His lineup of solid, credible victims fell apart.  Two backed out of testifying altogether, and one was intentionally vague on the stand.  Another came across as hostile even when he lobbed softball questions at her, and Barba watched his case fall apart just like that.  By the time Friday rolled around, McCoy was livid, demanding that he work with Fin and Amanda to come up with a plan B before closing arguments on Tuesday.  

He had to cancel.  Again. But you were understanding, or so you seemed on your texts.  He was dimly aware through Fin and Amanda’s offhand comments that SVU was stretched to capacity, and that you and Nick were drowning in work too.  So maybe you were okay with it.

The two of you rescheduled.  Again. Barba vowed on all that was holy that he’d make  _that_ date, one way or another. So when Friday rolled around again, and McCoy had pulled him into a meeting, he texted you right before going into the conference room.  He told you to go ahead without him and order him a scotch, and that he’d meet you at the restaurant a few minutes late.  You replied that you were looking forward to it.

The meeting ran over.  Barba sat on edge, his leg bouncing nervously under the table as he watched the clock and died each time the minute hand swept past the twelve.  Finally, he sighed and sent the all-too-familiar text, on the sly while McCoy wasn’t watching.  He had to cancel, yet again.  He put his phone away and tried to focus on the meeting.

This was it.  He had known it would never work out with you, and he was right.  It was just history repeating.  The last woman he dated left him because of his work schedule. It had started as a casual fling, just a lonely lawyer and a recent divorcee paralegal, and it fell into a familiar routine that turned into a relationship, quite unintended.  She was nice enough, and beautiful in her own, cold sort of way, and she was whip-smart to boot.  But she had no patience for being kept waiting, and it was only after a few missed dates or late evenings at the office before she dumped him. “You’re nice,” she had said.  “But I deserve a lot better than this.”

It was late by the time the meeting ended.  He was too dejected to check his phone for your reply, if there even was one.  He trudged back to his office, gathered up his things, and plodded out of the building. He felt tired to the core, and it wasn’t just from the past few chaotic weeks.

Once in the taxi, his curiosity got the better of him and he checked his phone. Nothing on the lock screen.  He unlocked it and opened the messages folder. No reply from you.  Then he saw it.

His cancellation message never sent.  That conference room was notorious for cell coverage, but it never crossed his mind.  The little red exclamation point indicating the failure to send was like a knife in the gut.  He pulled his hand over his face, horrified by the thought of you sitting in that restaurant, waiting.  You’d probably taken the time to look nice, in a dress and makeup and styled hair. He imagined you turning every time the door opened and the look on your face when you realized it wasn’t him. How long had you waited?

He barked out a new address to the taxi driver and prepared for the worst. Which he deserved.

* * *

You had waited at the restaurant for him.  As your meeting time came and went, you considered texting him, but figured he was on his way over.  By the time you  _really_ wanted to text him, you were stewing, so you held off.  You had a very, very long fuse, but a vicious temper when it was finally provoked, and you didn’t want to say anything you’d regret.  You hated the sympathetic looks that the waiter kept giving you every time he came to refill your water, and you hated how you watched the door like a dog waiting for its human to come home.  You eventually ordered, since you were hungry, and you made sure to give the waiter an obscenely large tip to make up for the inconvenience.  Then you rode the subway home.

You felt ridiculous.  You also felt uncomfortable.  Amanda had come through in true sisterly fashion, telling you about a boutique in the West Village.  You went there on your lunch break and had been talked into spending entirely too much money by an ambitious saleswoman.  You glanced around the half-empty subway car and tugged underneath your dress. Whoever decided that garters were sexy were obviously the men who didn’t have to wear them.

Once home, you shucked your dress and preposterous lingerie, threw on your pajamas, and scrubbed your face of makeup.  You’d finally laid out a perfect pair of matching cat’s eye liner, and no one other than the subway riders had seen it.  What a waste.  You made your nest of blankets on the couch and settled into your usual baking show escape. You were just starting to calm yourself, watching the contestants pipe perfectly formed macrons.  The sudden whine from your door’s intercom pulled you from your reverie.

You rolled your eyes and went over to answer it.  Mrs. Klosterman was always locking herself out when she went out for a smoke, and she buzzed every door until someone let her in.  You hit the button without talking to her – she had a tendency to keep you on the line, talking about her daughter in Sarasota – and padded back to the couch.  You were tucking the blanket around your knees when there was a knock at the door.

Your stomach lurched.  It was probably Barba.  You paused the television and walked slowly over to the door, checking the peephole. It was Barba.  You sighed and opened the door.

He pushed his way in without invitation.  You felt the edge of your anger soften as you looked at him.  He was rumpled, his face stubbled with five o’clock shadow, his hair out of place.  His eyes were red-rimmed and watery with exhaustion, and worry lines etched his face.  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I know I can’t make this right,” he said, not looking at you.  His hands trembled slightly as he unlocked the phone and pulled up a screen.  “But my message to you never sent.”  He held it up for you to see, and you glanced at it before look at him again.  You sighed, and you watched him wince, like he was expecting a blow.

“You owe me ninety bucks,” you chided him.  “Because I got an appetizer  _and_ your shitty drink, and I tip well.”

He nodded, still not looking at you.  You sighed again and said, softer this time, “that was a joke, Rafael.”

He glanced up your use of his first name, and you gifted him with a small smile.  “Tough week?” you asked.

He nodded again.  “The worst.”

“I heard a bit about it from Amanda,” you said.  “You look tired.”

“I’m exhausted,” he agreed.  He looked up at you now, his tired eyes searching your face.  “But I was sick when I saw that you never got my text.  I thought about you at the restaurant, waiting for me….I’m so sorry.”

You took a deep breath.  “I forgive you,” you said.  He let out a ragged breath, like he had been holding it, and you continued.  “You only ended up hurting yourself here, counselor,” you said in a playful tone.  “I had bought special lingerie for the occasion.”  You leaned towards him and whispered, “and it  _matches_.”

He laughed, then leaned towards you too.  He rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.  “I’ll never forgive myself now.”

You placed your arms around his neck, pulling him into a firm hug.  He sighed and leaned into you, dead-tired, and you staggered back a step under his weight.  “Come sit on the couch,” you said, removing yourself from the embrace and tugging his hand to follow you.  “Tell me all about your week.”

* * *

He removed his outer coat and suit jacket, then his waistcoat.  He sat on the couch with you beside and facing him, your legs tucked up under you.  As he rolled up his sleeves, he looked you over.  Bare feet, striped flannel pajama pants, and a t-shirt that proclaimed the Toronto Blues Jays to be 1992’s American League champions.  He smiled to himself, then told you all about his week.  You reached out and held his hand, gently working your own fingers over it, stroking it and pulling the tension from him.  You repeated it with his other hand, working out the stiffness from a week of clenching fists and writing out long-hand question and answer diagrams for trial.

“How was your week?” he asked you in turn.  

You shrugged.  “Not much to say.  Nick and I are just running in circles.  We spent all day in Staten Island’s SVU.”  
  
“Have a good time?”

You laughed.  “I hate to stereotype, but have you ever been to a Staten Island precinct?  Two minutes there, and you’re crowded by a bunch of cops trying to feed you.”  You slipped into an adorably terrible Staten Island accent.  “It’s like, ‘my ma made cannoli’ or ‘you gotta try my nonna’s zeppole’ or ‘this is my wife’s pignolata.’”  You dropped the accent and continued.  “And if you don’t eat their damned pastries, you end up sparking a family feud that’ll last generations.  Nick and I both crashed from sugar highs in the afternoon.”

“That sounds terrible,” he joked.

You pulled a resigned face.  “It’s these sort of sacrifices that made me want to become a cop.”

He reached out and stroked your arm, running his fingers up and down, feather-light, making goosebumps break out across your skin.  “I am really sorry about tonight.  And the past Fridays too.”  He trailed his hand down your arm until it was clasping your hand.  He drew it up to his mouth and pressed a kiss along your knuckles.

“I already forgave you,” you said back.  You broke your hand away from his and stroked his face, cupping your palm around his cheek.  He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch.  Then he reached out and pulled you to him, until you were sitting across his lap, your legs dangling off the couch.

“What would it take to see this incredibly sexy  _matching_ lingerie,” he asked, pressing his face against your neck. “ _Matching_ is my kink, by the way.”

You snorted.  You ran your hand through his hair, raking your nails lightly over his scalp.  He hummed in contentment, slipping his hands under your shirt.  One rubbed the bare skin of your back and the other reached up to gently cup first one breast, then the other.  You moaned softly, then wriggled against his lap, looking for some friction as he pawed your breasts, drawing a thumb across your nipples until they hardened.

As you softly ground yourself against him, though, he realized with growing horror that your nipples were the only erect things in the room.  He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, kissing you, desperately hoping for the usual chain reaction that started when he had his arms around you or his mouth on you.  But the more he panicked, the further from reality his erection seemed.   _Fuck_ , he thought.   _Not now_.

You realized something was amiss a moment later and stopped grinding on him. You pulled away with a confused expression.  He refused to look at you.  Instead, he dropped his head lower.  “I’m sorry, Y/F/N.  I can’t get anything right tonight.”

“Is it me?” you asked, your voice small.  He removed his hands from under your shirt and circled them around your waist in a tight embrace.  He shook his head but couldn’t speak.

* * *

The first thought to go through your head was that he wasn’t attracted to you without alcohol in him.  Every time you’d hooked up before, he’d had some booze in his system.  Except for the first morning after, but he was half asleep then.  You were confused.

“It’s not you,” he whispered finally.  He pressed his forehead against your shoulder and sighed.  “I’m so sorry.”

You placed your hand on the back of his neck, stroking it lightly.  He shuddered against you, his arms tight around you, not speaking.  A thought occurred to you, and you mentally kicked yourself.  You should have accepted his original apology and then sent him directly home to sleep.

“You too tired,” you guessed.  He nodded against your shoulder.  “I should have sent you home,” you whispered, running your hand through his hair and soothing him.  

He snorted against you, his breath a hot burst against your skin.  “I wouldn’t have slept,” he mumbled.  “I would have been tossing and turning, feeling like an asshole for standing you up.  Besides, it’s been a terrible week.”  He pulled away a little to look at you with sheepish eyes.  “Have you ever been so tired that you can’t actually sleep?”

You smiled sadly at him.  “In my line of work?  Absolutely. You’re talking to the girl who engineered her bedroom for sleep…and who still takes more sleeping pills than she’s comfortable with.”  You leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then climbed off his lap to stand over him.  

“Come on,” you said and held your hand out to him.  He looked at you with bleary eyes and took it.  He stood up and made to reach for his coat, but you stopped him, giving him a tug towards your bedroom.

He shook his head.  “I don’t think I can….”

You cut him off.  “Not that. You’re too tired to get home at this point.  I don’t want you falling asleep in some Uber and waking up in Brighton Beach without your wallet.”  You gave him a gentle shove towards the bathroom.  “There’s a new toothbrush in the top drawer of the vanity, Barba.”

He exited the bathroom a few moments later and stood, swaying from exhaustion, in the bedroom doorway.  You had pulled back the sheets and turned on the bedside lamp.

“I don’t have any clothes that would fit you,” you joked.  “But you can strip down to sleep.  I won’t take advantage of you.”  You waggled your eyebrows at him like a letch, drawing a tired laugh from him.  “I’ll take the couch,” you added.  “You get some sleep, okay?”

He sat on the edge of the bed heavily and pulled off his socks and shoes, then removed his pants and undershirt.  He slumped forward, his arms on his knees, his head heavy.  Then he looked up at you.  

“Stay with me?” he asked.  He looked so forlorn.  You climbed in from the other side while he settled into his side.  He reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.  The two of you lay side by side, not talking or touching for a minute.  You knew he was exhausted, but you could also feel the nervous tension radiating off of him.  You broke the silence.

“You know what I do sometimes when I can’t sleep?” you asked, your voice soft.  He made an inquisitive hum, and you reached over to the bedside table on your side. You groped in the darkness for the switch, then clicked it on.  The room was suddenly filled with pinpoints of light thrown across the ceiling and walls, like a star-field.  Barba turned to look at you, his eyes crinkled by his sudden grin.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.  You reached out and pulled him to you, pressing his head against you so that it was nestled under your chin and on your chest.  “I bought this night-light at Babies ‘r Us.”  He snorted against you, and you tugged his hair playfully.

“I said don’t laugh, Barba.”  You ran your fingernails through his hair, scratching his scalp in abstract patterns. “You can’t see the stars in New York City.”

“Who needs the stars when you have all-night bodegas?” he joked.  You tugged his hair again, then resumed the soothing scratching.  You opened your mouth to speak, hesitated.  

Then you said, “I grew up in the middle of nowhere.”  He perked up a bit, turning his head to look at you before settling back on your chest.  “I mean, I bounced from foster home to foster home, but it was all pretty rural.”  He hummed against you, and you continued.

“There was this one home I was at for a while, out on a farm.  I was there with three other kids.  It wasn’t a great time – the foster parents were only in it for the free labor and the maintenance checks from the state, but I was close with one of the other kids. He was about four years older than me.” You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering Charlie.  A shock of reddish brown hair, bright blue eyes a smattering of freckles across his face. Sallow and thin from being generally underfed, as you all were.

“Charlie and I were obsessed with this one book in the school library.  We took turns checking it out.  It was a big book full of these glossy pages of pictures from the Hubble telescope.  It talked about the stars and how they were born and died, all the science.”  You paused, shifting your hand from Barba’s head to his bare back, rubbing circles along his skin.  “But it also had stories about the constellations.  And not just the usual ones – they told stories about indigenous constellations, ancient Chinese ones, Persian ones….”

“That sounds nice,” Barba murmured.

“It was,” you agreed.  “The book said that any configuration of stars can be considered a constellation, so Charlie and I would lay out in the field at night and make up our own constellations and our own stories.  Orion became the mother, surrounded by pets like cats and dogs.  There was the hamburger with the pickle on the side, the bicycle jumping over a stream….we concocted elaborate stories about them.  Our own mythology.”

He slid his arms around your waist and hugged you, then shifted his head to gaze up at your ceiling. “Any good constellations here in your room?”

You thought about it.  With your free hand, you pointed.  “Those are the Ridiculous Suspenders.”  You shifted your hand, pointing to another area.  “They belong to the Smirking Lawyer, here.  He died choking on his own pretension after describing the flavor profile of shitty alcohol, but the goddess Artemis loved him so she put him in the sky.”  Barba turned his head against you, stifling a laugh, then settled back into his original position.  “That’s probably the most seductive, handsome constellation I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the most  _something_ ,” you agreed.  “Not sure what that something is yet.”

The two of you lay in comfortable silence:  him with his arm around you tight, you alternating between rubbing his back and stroking his head.

“What happened to Charlie?” he finally asked.  He sounded sleepy, so you answered.

“He went to another home, and I did too.  That’s the problem.  I had so many brothers and sisters, but I lost all of them.  What ten-year-old can keep track of all those names?  We all shifted so much, I could barely keep track of myself.”  He squeezed you tighter.  You continued, quieter.  “I should have the biggest family at holiday dinners instead of….” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought.  Barba gave you a final squeeze, and then the two of you drifted off to sleep.

* * *

He woke late the next morning. He heard you in your kitchen, the sound of music faint through the closed bedroom door.  He crawled out of bed and stretched deeply, relishing the feeling of not – for the first time in weeks – being completely fatigued.  He pulled his clothes on and swung the door open, exiting the room to join you.

You were dressed in your usual work uniform, but your hair was loose, laying across your shoulders.  You had your back to him and were nodding your head along to the music coming through your phone’s speakers.  He paused and listened to you humming, then he walked over to you.

You turned and gave him a smile after you paused the music.  “Morning, glory,” you said sunnily.  “I got bagels while you were sleeping.”

He leaned against the counter. “No omelet?  No carefully-crafted eggs Benedict?”

You smiled again as you slid the bag of bagels over to him.  “Rough week. The only thing in my fridge is a box of baking soda and some condiments.”  He felt you watching him as he sliced a bagel in half and smeared a layer of cream cheese on it.  You poured him a cup of coffee from the pot you had brewed and handed that to him too. He took a bite and chewed, then broke the silence.

“About last night…” he started, but you cut him off by laying a hand on his arm.

“No expectations, remember?” He nodded, disappointed, but you resumed.  “You were dead asleep on your feet, and I know better than most how demanding your job is.  All is forgiven.”  He smiled and finished his bagel, washing it down with the coffee.

“Can I make it up to you now?” he asked, dropping his voice into a growl.

You gave him a rueful smile and shook your head.  “I wish. Nick and I are working today.  The Captain approved some overtime for us to wrap up our cold cases for now, so we’re going in to write out our reports. We’re being reassigned on Monday.”

Barba couldn’t hide his disappointment.  He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face.  “What about tomorrow?  Brunch, maybe?”

You looked sympathetic. “Can’t.  I teach a self-defense class for women in the Bronx, the last Sunday of every month.”  You smirked at him.  “Someone needs to help them protect themselves.  There’s a legend of a smarmy young Cuban boy, running up and down Jerome Avenue, terrorizing the neighborhood with his smart-ass mouth.” He chuckled at you remembering the details of your mutual childhood conversation.

“Damned right he’s a legend,” he said.  He reached for you, pulling you against him.  You curved into his embrace, pressing against him as he laid a firm kiss on your closed mouth.  You started to kiss him back, but then pushed him away.

“I can’t,” you whined.  “And don’t get me worked up.  I’ve already ran enough miles this week to qualify for a marathon.  Had to burn off all that excess energy, thanks to you.”

He smirked.  “You could always…take care of yourself.  While thinking of me, of course.”

You shook your head.  “I’d rather wait for the genuine article. Besides, running keeps me in shape for when I have to punish evil-doers.”  You kissed him gently on the cheek, then went to get your coat and bag. He grabbed his coat and briefcase, and you both exited the apartment.  He reached out and took your hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he walked you out to the street.


	9. Chapter 9

The weekend was pure torture for Barba.  He worked, of course, but thoughts of you distracted him. His mind couldn’t settle on a line of thinking with you:  one moment, he was speculating about what lingerie you had purchased for your missed date (Lace?  Silk? Sheer chiffon?  Deep red or baby pink or black?  He tortured himself with theories.)  The next moment, he was thinking about how you had opened up about your childhood a bit.  He didn’t know much; he only knew that you had a soft spot for the child victims, especially the children on the fringes of society who seemed to suffer the most.  He was starting to understand why now.

He thought about you with Amaro, that lucky bastard, grinding through the paperwork on Saturday.  He thought about you somewhere in the Bronx, teaching women how to protect themselves.  His abuelita lived in the Bronx, and she had been mugged a few years back.  He pictured you teaching his feisty lita how to land a solid punch.  Then he pictured his grandmother showing you a thing or two as well.  The thought made him smile.

* * *

The missing women cases were put away for the time being. There wasn’t even a body, so you and Nick boxed up all of your notes and charts and maps and prepared for your next case.

It wasn’t the only change happening in SVU.  Captain Cragan, the man who had recruited you from the FBI, was retiring.  Aside from your mentor in the FBI who had recruited you out of school, Cragan was the closest thing you had to a father.  A beleaguered father, perhaps, who was constantly placed between the rock of police politics and the hard place of delivering justice.

You were sad to see him leave, but you were happy for him. The day he made the announcement, you saw decades of weight lift from his shoulders.  He deserved a life of his own, finally.  The only issue was the question of who your new captain would be. You felt that you had some coverage, since Liv was just promoted to sergeant, but you didn’t know who would ultimately oversee SVU.  Captain Harris hadn’t been a terrible interim captain in the past, but you knew NYPD political players were worse than Roman senators whispering to each other on March 14th.

“I heard that we were getting a guy off from deep cover,” Fin proclaimed in the break room.  Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Great,” she drawled.  “Some psycho.  Just what SVU needs.”

That psycho walked through the door on Monday morning, early.  He spent the day in Cragan’s office with the door shut, and one by one, you and the other detectives were called in to meet your new captain, Declan Murphy.  Your meeting with him was last, and it went well enough – he had read your jacket and saw your solid history of detective work, the commendations and solve percentages.  But he was terse and talked about “being bigger picture,” and you were on edge when you left the office.  

“How’d it go?” your partner asked you.  You sat beside his desk in a huff.

“You get the ‘big picture’ speech?” you countered.  Nick nodded, and you both shook your heads. You were thinking the same thing: big picture meant that the little victims would be neglected.  It meant big, splashy new conferences and shaking hands with the mayor while victims of date-rape were refused justice.  You had no expectations for your new captain, and you had been right.  

You had no expectations for your relationship with Barba. Well, you thought, it wasn’t a relationship.  Sleeping together three times didn’t a relationship make, and one of those three truly had been just sleeping.  Barba had been more solicitous, texting you over the weekend and even calling you Sunday night (“just to hear your voice,” he said), but you kept him at arm’s length.

It wasn’t the failed date night.  As he had fallen asleep in your arms that night, you had opened up about your childhood more than you ever had before.  You regretted it the more time that passed.  You preferred to keep that part of your life to yourself, and spilling out some tragic story about two orphans making up stupid stories to feel less lonely was just pathetic.  Barba was never going to take you home to meet his mother, you knew that already.  But revealing just how fucked up your childhood had been would send him reeling for the door.  People always left, in the end.  That’s why if you never expected anything:  if you expected nothing, you could never be disappointed.  You just had to keep him at arm’s length.  It would be way too easy to fall in love with him. Your whole life, you were the only one you could count on, so you had to protect yourself first.

* * *

One week passed, and then another.  Barba was just as busy.  Amanda and Fin’s case on the rapist doctor ended in a hung jury.  He had to travel to Albany for three days for a conference.  He kept in touch with you, texting and sometimes calling.  You always replied, and on the phone, you sounded happy to hear from him and chatted away about work.  You were aggravated by your new captain, and your latest case was a nightmare – a series of young men who came forward about a priest from their old middle school.  After an initial search, you found that the priest was still around – now teaching at an elementary school.

The two of you were just completely out of sync, schedule-wise.  When he was at SVU, you were out digging up leads.  When you were at Hogan Place, you were rushing to see Pippa Cox, who typically handled cases with children and teens.  He caught a glimpse of you once from his window; you and Amaro were arguing in the sidewalk below.  Amaro was waving his hands and you were facing him in what Barba had come to call your power stance.  Your feet were planted apart, your hands on your hips, shoulders back and chest out. And your face screwed up into a scowl that you probably thought looked intimidating but was instead just delightful to the ADA. 

And then he saw you again.  At night.  From the window of his taxi, he was gazing idly at the streets wet from an evening rainstorm.  At first, he didn’t even recognize you. Then he did a double-take – it was definitely you.  Out running at eleven o’clock at night, your legs pumping as you charged along the sidewalk.  Your face was set in stony concentration, and the stray strands of hair that had escaped your braid curled wet along your jaw.  You had earbuds in, probably lost in your own world. 

Barba calculated the distance between where you were now and your apartment.  It was an appalling mileage that made his own calves cramp in sympathy.  He knew work was rough on your right now, but maybe you were burning off some….energy too.  If so, it must be the equivalent of a neutron bomb, based on how far you were going.

But he was worried about your safety.  You could take care of yourself, but running alone at night with headphones was pure crime bait.  He thought about calling you to break your reverie, but you had already turned a corner ahead and pulled out of sight.  He sighed and thought about texting you tomorrow morning.

Once home, he sat down at his home laptop to check his emails, order a few necessities, and pay some bills.  While online, a thought crossed his mind.  He did a bit of searching, made another purchase, then logged off and went to bed.

It was a few days later when you called him.  He was in his office, reading through a law review on virtual sex crimes when his phone rang.  He looked down and saw your name.  He smiled and answered it.

“Are you fucking serious?” you shrieked as a greeting. He held the phone away, his ear ringing, then switched it his other ear.

“Hello, detective,” he responded smoothly.  “Need a warrant?”

“You know I don’t need a fucking warrant,” you snarled. “You know why I’m calling you.” He was silent on the line and you continued, your voice just a bit quieter and calmer.  “What if someone else had opened that?  Are you insane?”  You fired off question after question at him, about his sanity, about his judgement.  He didn’t answer, partially because they were rhetorical and mainly because you didn’t give him a chance to get a word in.  But you gradually calmed down, and when he heard you heave a giant sigh of getting everything off your chest, he responded.

“Do you like it?”

There was a pause on your end, and he imagined you turning red or biting your lip.  You sighed again.  “What if it had….gone off in the box?  What if Murphy was standing over me when I opened it?”

Barba leaned back in his chair.  “Firstly, Y/L/N, it can’t just ‘go off.’  It’s not battery operated.  It charges via USB.  Didn’t you read the specs on the back of the box?”  
  
“You damn well know I…”

He cut you off.  “And secondly, if Captain Murphy sees you opening a sex toy at your desk, calmly remind him that you work in sex crimes and research is a vital part of your professional success.”

You started to protest.  He cut you off again.  “I have to head into a meeting, Detective.  So enjoy your gift.  Go home and charge it up.  Give it a test drive.  Let me know how it goes.”

“You know I won’t,” you muttered over the line.

“You will,” he replied darkly.  “And you’ll think about me when you do, and then you’ll tell me all about it the next time I see you.”

There was another pause on the line.  “Okay,” you agreed with a sigh.  “You win.  I’ll take it home and charge it up tonight.”  He chuckled at you, but the laugh died when you added, “and I’ll think about Amaro when I try it out.  I’ll let you know how it goes.”  There was an audible click as you hung up on him.  

* * *

You already knew to expect him.  Hanging up on him was rude, but you also knew it would provoke a response that couldn’t wait until your schedules aligned.  

You were right.  At ten o’clock, your intercom buzzed, and you knew it wasn’t Mrs. Klosterman locked out from her nightly Parliament fix.  You hit the call button.  “Who is it?” you asked in your sweetest voice.

“You know who it is.” came the staticky response.

“Oh, Nick?  Is that you?”  You dropped your voice and said as seductively as you could, “I’ve been waiting for you.”  Then you rang him in.

Barba must have taken the stairs four at a time – he was almost instantly at your door, knocking insistently until you opened.  His face was red and he was out of breath from his sprint.  You made a disappointed face and pretended to scan the hallway behind him.  “I was expecting someone else,” you said with a pout. He pushed you into your apartment, slamming the door behind you as he pressed you against it, his body flush against yours.  He bit down on your still-pouting lip, then sucked it into his mouth before releasing it.   
  
“If I ever hear you talk about Amaro like that again, I’m going to end up in jail for manslaughter and it’ll be your fault.” He crashed his lips against yours, pulling your breath from you.  His hands roamed under your pajamas like he was mapping out your body.  Or remembering what you felt like.

Once you were panting against him, he abruptly stopped and stepped away from you.  He turned on his heel and strutted into your apartment.  He removed his coat and jacket and dropped them on your armchair, then dropped himself on your couch.  He propped one leg up on his knee and laid his arm across the back of the couch in a posture of complete relaxation.

“How was your day?” he asked, nonchalant.  You groaned and steadied yourself against your door, then walked over and joined him.

“Are you serious?” you asked.  “You come over here and just…”  He cut you off by dropping his arm from across the back of the couch to your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug.  He leaned against your head and kissed you on your temple.

“I want to hear about your day, Y/F/N,” he murmured against your hair.  “You’ve been having a rough time lately.”

You sighed.  “You been talking to Liv?”

“Yes,” he replied.  “But I also saw you out running the other night.”  You stirred against him, but he held you fast against him. “Was that work-frustration running or Barba-frustration running?”

You shrugged.  “A little of both.”

He made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “You were out late at night with headphones in.”  When you didn’t reply, he added, “I worry about you.”

You stiffened in his embrace, and he let you go.  You turned to face him.  He did look worried, for what it was worth.  But you kept your distance anyway.

“I can take care of myself,” you said, looking him in square in the eye.  “No need to worry.  You’re not my father.”

He winced.  “I know I’m not your father.”  He gazed at you for a moment, his green eyes soft.  “But I’m a friend at least, right?  Can’t a friend worry?”

You ignored this bit.  Why let him worry about you?  He would eventually fade away from you, once whatever novelty wore off for him. You were an inexperienced young woman, he was a skilled and bored man.  Once he got tired of his game, that would be it.  But until then, you could at least enjoy yourself.

“You’re not my father,” you repeated.  “But if you’re that jealous of Nick, I could tell you about some of our late nights together in the bullpen, just the two of us, sitting side by side...”

His face rippled with emotion.  His eyes darkened and narrowed at you; Amaro was obviously a trigger for him.  And his jaw clenched, probably unconsciously, at the mention of your partner’s name. But before all of that, there was a flicker of something.  Disappointment?  You pushed the question aside as he reached for you.

* * *

When you ignored his loaded question of being friends, Barba’s heart sank a bit.  He had half-hoped that it would spur you to ask what, exactly, the two of you were.  In the deepest part of his heart, the part he tried to ignore, he just wanted to sit down with you and cut through all the static of the past few months.  

He wanted you to ask if you were his.  Because in that deepest part of his heart, he already thought of himself as yours.  He hadn’t wanted to admit it because he’d been hurt so much in the past.  But it was the truth, and it grew and pressed against him until he felt like he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Then you dropped that line, teasing him about your partner, and his troubled thoughts were erased by red-hot desire.  He ditched the casual posture and turned his body around to face you directly on the couch. He pulled you to him, your limbs tangled awkwardly, and he crowded against you.  You scrambled away from him, and he pressed forward until you were trapped between him and the corner of the couch.  Your hands were on his chest, pushing back against him.  

He leaned in close to your face.  You raised your head a fraction to kiss him, but he pulled his head back so that you couldn’t reach him.  He stared at you, his piercing green eyes boring holes into you.  “Where is it?” he asked.

You resumed your syrupy-sweet voice.  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“This isn’t a game you want to play with me, detective.”  He narrowed his eyes a bit.  

You narrowed yours to mirror his.  The two of you stared each other down for a moment.  The tension was unbelievable, and Barba nearly snapped.  You broke first, though.  “It’s over there,” you admitted.  You nodded your head towards your kitchen table, pointing with your chin.  He followed your pointing and saw it, charging on its USB in your laptop port.  

He turned back to you, his set mouth growing into a smirk.  “Go get it,” he ordered.  He leaned back enough to release you from your trapped position, and you stood up with a grumble and retrieved it.  He held out his hand when you brought it over to him, watching your face intently. When you noticed him staring at you, your face gradually pinked, then turned red, then crimson.  

His smirk widened even more.  He stood up and pointed at the couch.  “Lay down,” he said.  You hesitated, and he added, “that wasn’t a request, detective.”

You paused but did as he said.  As you stretched out on your back across the couch, he dropped his stern demeanor for a moment and whispered, “remember our rules.”

You nodded.  “You stop if I say so,” you whispered back.

“Good girl,” he murmured, then resumed his strict persona. He held the device out, showing it to you but not handing it to you.  “Do you know how it works?”  You shook your head no, and he chuckled.  He had imagined that you would walk the line between curious and embarrassed.  You had charged it but hadn’t studied it.  He had been right.

He took a step closer to you so that he towered over you. “Then I think you should learn,” he said darkly.  He paused at the look on your face.  You looked genuinely worried.  “What is it?” he asked gently.

“It’s very bright in here,” you replied.  “Can we move to the bedroom?”

He looked around and walked over to the light switch and turned off the ceiling light.  There was still plenty of light though, creeping in from the street through the blinds.  “Lie on your side,” he commanded.  You turned on the couch and drew your left arm under your head while your right arm lay along your side and draped across your waist.  Barba crawled over you, nestled himself behind you so that you were spooning.

“Is this better?” he whispered.  He saw you nod – the back of your head was in front of him, and he could see your face reflected in the screen of your television.

“Good,” he continued.  He wriggled his left arm under you until it was wrapped up around from underneath you, his hand cupping your right breast as his forearm held you against him.  With his right hand, you handed you the device.

It was small, just a few inches of a silicone nub attached to a silicone ring.  He pressed his mouth near your ear whispered to you, pointing out how to place it on your index finger and where the power button was.  He took it from you and made you hold out your hand, and he slid it onto the index finger of your trembling hand.  

He reached down and undid the drawstring on your pajama bottoms.  “Now,” he whispered huskily, making sure that you felt his heavy breath in the shell of your ear.  “This is no substitute for the genuine article, but it’s a decent start.”  He placed his hand over yours, then led both down your front.  

“Just like this,” he drawled.  He curled your remaining three fingers into your palm so that only your index finger was extended.  He groped for a moment for the button and turned the vibrator on.  He glanced at the black screen of the turned-off television and saw your face:  your eyes were half-shut and you had your bottom lip firmly in your mouth, biting it. It turned him on even more, and he bit back his own groan so he could continue.

He led your hands under your bottoms, inching them slowly until your index finger was hovering over your crease.  The heat was incredibly against his hand, and he pressed against your hand until the vibrator was touching you.  

A tortured sob tore out of your mouth, and he looked at your face’s reflection again.  You had released your lower lip, and it looked shiny with spit and puffy from your worrying at it.  He laid a sucking kiss along the side of your neck at the same time he pressed your finger harder, making it slip between your slick lower lips.  The vibrator kissed your swollen nub.  “ _Fuck_ ,” you hissed, drawing out the curse with an agonized moan.  Barba shut his own eyes for a moment to regain his own rapidly deteriorating control. He pressed against your backside so that you could feel his erection, reminding you that this was only a substitute.

“This is how you take care of yourself,” he growled at you. “Not putting yourself in danger. You come home where you’re safe….” He pressed your index finger harder against your bundle of nerves, circling it around you as you panted.  “…and you touch yourself just like this.”  The vibrator became coated in your arousal, and he set a pace for you, alternating between pressing the toy against your bud and circling it and teasing your dripping entrance.  

“Just like that,” he repeated, then drew his hand away slowly.  He pulled it from under your pajamas and let it rest lightly on your hip while he watched you touch yourself in the reflection of the TV screen.  Your lip was tucked in your mouth again, set between your even teeth, and your eyes were squeezed shut in concentration.  Barba ground against your backside for friction, relieving a bit of the pressure building in his groin, and you pressed back against him.  

“How does that feel?” he growled against your neck.  You could only answer him with a low moan.  You were breathing heavily through your nose. The pace he had set for you started to devolve as your hips stuttered involuntarily into your own hand.  He watched your reflection and judged how close you were. He slid his hand from your hip, under your shirt to your bare breast.  He stroked your nipple gently, and, when he saw from your face how close you were, pinched it firmly while latching his mouth in a wet kiss along the back of your neck.  

The sudden overload of sensation triggered your orgasm, your legs a quivering mess.  Barba pulled you tight against him so that you wouldn’t fall off the couch, holding you as you gasped and trembled.  Once you were done, he gently pulled your hand away from you and turned the device off. He removed it from your hand and let it drop on the floor as he turned you underneath him to press a firm kiss to your open mouth.

“No more running at night with headphones in,” he insisted.  He kissed along your cheekbones and chin while your pulse steadied and breathing slowed. “Promise me.”

You nodded.  “I promise.”

He pulled back a bit and smirked down at your face, flushed with pleasure instead of embarrassment.  “Remember, that’s not a replacement for me.”  You pretended to think about.  You opened your mouth to say something, probably snarky, and he cut you off with a bruising kiss.  “If I have to remind you….”

He broke away for a moment, reaching down to unbuckle his belt and unzip himself.  He pushed his pants and boxer briefs down just enough to free his erection, and then he pushed down your pajamas past your knees.  He lay flush against you, the tip of him pressed against your soaked lips.  He half-rose over you, propped up on one arm, and reached into his back pocket.  He pulled out a condom and tore the foil with his teeth, then rolled it onto himself with a shaky hand.

He settled back onto you, his eyes searching your face for permission.  “Awfully certain of yourself, counselor, to bring your own protection,” you joked.  Your laugh turned into a moan as he dragged his erection against your seam.  

“You hung up on me, Y/F/N.  I needed to reestablish my standing here,” he growled, nipping at your pulse point.  

“Your standing just went down a bit,” you teased, gesturing to the vibrator on the floor.  He growled again and kissed the hollow of your throat, hard enough for you to whimper but not so hard that it would bruise.

He murmured against your neck.  “I can leave.  Or….” He pressed the tip of his cock against you, parting your lower lips just a bit.  “I could just do this…”

Your voice sounded strangled.  “Please do, counselor.”  Your breathing hitched and you added a second “please.”

He pushed into you slowly.  The angle was different – you couldn’t open your legs to him because your pajama bottoms were still half on.  At best, you could open your thighs just a bit, so he slid in as far as he could. 

The shallow angle meant that the front of your hips were pressed together.  He couldn’t bury himself in you, but he was able to set a rhythm:  he pushed as much of himself into your molten core as he could, then thrust slow and shallow, grinding his pelvis against yours.  His groin dragged and kneaded your hypersensitive clit.  It only took a moment to push you over the edge again.

He felt your core gripping him, and he kept pushing into you as he watched your face.  You threw your head back, your face and neck flushed hot with your second orgasm.  Your eyes fluttered for a moment, then snapped open to look him directly in the eye.  Your pupils were blown, and you pulled his head roughly down to you, crashing your mouth to his.  He felt his own familiar coiling, and thrust harder.  You dropped your head back, letting the waves of pleasure ripple through you.  “ _Fuck_ , Rafael,” you groaned.  He buried his head against your neck, and with one final push, came too.


	10. Chapter 10

Barba left that night, after you both recovered.  He cleaned himself as best he could while you sat curled on the couch, waiting for him.  He put on his coat, then sat beside you on the couch.  He reached down and retrieved the vibrator from the living room floor.  Without an ounce of shame, he matter-of-factly explained that there should be a silicone plug in the original box for the USB port.  “That makes it water-proof,” he said.  “If you’re running short on time and need to use it in the shower.”  He smiled at you, his face open and relaxed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  He gestured for you to hold out your hand and slid the vibrator back on your index finger.  You snorted.

“Most girls get a diamond,” you joked.  “I get a vibrator.”

His smile slipped a bit and his eyebrows furrowed at your quip. You curled your hand into a loose fist around the toy and punched him lightly in the arm.  “I’m only kidding,” you said nervously.  

His face relaxed again.  “Y/F/N.  It’s a water-proof vibrator.  Most girls would kill for that.”  He looked at you, but his deep green eyes were unreadable to you.  He looked away a moment later, remembering something.

“Another thing,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not the boss of you.”  He smirked.  “Well, I’m the boss of you  _sometimes_.”  He got serious again.  He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into your hand.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he said, gazing at you.  “All I’m saying is that… New York City needs you.”  He removed his hand from yours, leaving the small canister of runner’s mace in your palm.  He pointed to the small pinpoint in the nozzle.  “This is the side you point at the bad guys,” he teased.  You gave him a gentle shove, then ducked your head.  

“Thanks for this,” you mumbled, suddenly shy.  He put his hand under your chin, tilting your face towards him.  He placed a soft kiss on your lips, then another on your forehead.  Then he went home.

You went to bed without going on your nightly run.

You thought about Barba’s concern and conceded that he had a point.  You started running early in the morning before work instead.  No headphones – just you and the moon, hanging over Manhattan and fading in each growing dawn.

You kept the vibrator charged.  You used it, and when you did, you pictured Barba arching over you, or pressed against you or driving into you relentlessly.  He was right, though – it was a pale substitute.

 

Your case was gathering speed.  You found more victims from the school where Father Moore had worked. You had leads on a student who may have been assaulted in his current school.  You and Nick were tireless, even using old yearbooks to help track down former students.  Captain Murphy smelled the potential for a large case, and his eyes practically lit up at the thought of the political capital he could build.  Liv was pulled in to help suss out new victims.

The victims from Father Moore’s first school were older now, young men in their early and mid-twenties.  The majority of them were damaged from the abuse:  addicts or in shaky recovery, while others struggled to keep jobs or maintain basic standards of living.  You found a few in homeless shelters, and two in prison.

Jason was the victim who started it all.  He was the one who had walked into the precinct and asked to speak to a detective.  He was the one who handed over yearbooks and sat for hours, giving you lists of names – more boys to talk to, parents who had complained, fellow teachers who had perhaps looked the other way.

You kept in close contact with Jason throughout the case, giving him necessarily vague updates without giving him details.  He didn’t know, for example, that Moore was teaching again in New York City, this time at Sacred Heart Elementary.  He was under the impression that the church had relocated him to another parish in the country.  You tried to give him hope because you knew he was on shaky ground. He was twenty-four, just outside of New York’s ridiculous statute of limitations.  He was in recovery from addiction, and you worried about him being able to maintain sobriety if Moore was arrested and brought to trial.  Or worse, if he wasn’t.

You were in the bullpen, finishing up another update with Jason.  He seemed unsteady, his hands trembling as he fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. You asked him as gently as you could if he was okay.  He nodded and explained that he’d been having anxiety attacks.  He’d been going to NA meetings two, three times a day.  It barely helped.  He never felt safe, he told you.

You laid a firm hand on his, calming the shaking. “Anything you need,” you said, staring him dead in the eye.  “We are in this together.”

He squeezed your hand back and gave you a grim smile. He thanked you and went to leave.

Murphy came out of his office, watching as Jason walked away slowly.  “Y/L/N, I need you and Amaro to head over to Sacred Heart,” he said.  “Liv is with Barba and will meet you there with the warrant. It should be good for everything – Moore’s desk, locker, laptop.”

You glanced down at your watch.  “Nick should be back in twenty minutes.”

“Meet him there then,” Murphy ordered.

Sacred Heart was on the other side of town, but it was the middle of the week and the middle of the day, so traffic was, by New York City standards, bearable.  On the way over, you called Nick and filled him in.  He had been in the Bronx, trying to track down the former headmaster from Moore’s first school.  Nick told you that he would meet you at Sacred Heart, probably only fifteen minutes behind you.

You pulled up and waited for a second, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel.  The school resource officer wasn’t at his post, and you couldn’t see anyone in the front office through the plate glass windows.  The hair on the back of your neck stood up.   You’d had this sort of hinky feeling before, many times, with SVU and with the FBI.  You called in your position to central dispatch, then texted both Nick and Liv to let them know what you were doing.  Then you exited your car and made your way into the school.  Your cop-sense intensified and you knew it was some deep part of your brain taking over, sensing danger and bringing every nerve and sense alive to help keep you safe.  You opened the door and entered the school.

The school officer lay in the vestibule, shot through the upper chest.  You pulled your piece, sliding the safety off and immediately crouched down, scanning the perimeter for signs of the shooter.  You crept over to the fallen man and checked him for a pulse.  There was none.

You pulled your radio off of your belt and called in. “Ten seventy-eight, code three,” you whispered as loudly as you dared.  “Shooting in progress at Sacred Heart Elementary.”  You gave the address as your heart pounded in your ears.  “Man down.”

From somewhere nearby, you heard a shot, then screams.  You scanned your perimeter again, then walked quickly towards the sound, partially crouched. The first few classroom doors were locked when you tested their handles.  Their lights were off, but when you peered in through the tiny windows set in the doors, you saw children huddled underneath their desks.  “Good,” you thought.  “They have shelter-in-place protocol, at least.”  You continued checking each room as you went, clearing the hallway.

You found the shooter in a small computer lab at the end of the hallway.  You quickly appraised the situation – four children clustered in the corner. Appeared unharmed.  Crying.  Moore sitting in a chair, his face the color of putty.  He was bleeding from a wound in his leg, his breath coming out of his throat in a high-pitched whistle.  And holding a semi-automatic to his forehead – Jason.

You pieced together a working theory quickly.  Jason overhead Murphy at the precinct and found out that Moore wasn’t just in NYC, but also teaching children – in the neighborhood where he’d grown up.  Jason had previously admitted to not feeling safe.  He had connections to shadier elements through his struggles with addiction. He got a gun, obviously black market. He probably carried it at all time in an effort to feel some semblance of security.  He likely had it on him when you spoke at the precinct, or in his car.  

You glanced at Moore, assessing his wound. Kneecap.  Painful, but he wasn’t in immediate danger of bleeding out. Right, you thought.  Get the kids out safely.  Secure the gun.  No one else hurt.

You kept your gun trained on the shooter.  “Hey, Jason,” you said.  You kept your voice level and calm.  “How about we both lower our guns and talk about this?”  

His eyes were vacant as they shifted from Moore to you. “Nothing to talk about.  You knew he was here in New York,  _teaching_ , and you didn’t do anything.”

“You’re right,” you said.  “And we can talk about that.  But let’s let the kids go, okay?”  

His gaze shifted to the children in the back corner. You saw a flicker in his eyes, and said softer, “they’re scared, Jason.  You know how that feels.  Let them go and we can talk.  Just you, me, and him.”  He thought about it and then nodded.

“Put your gun on the floor and kick it to me,” he said. “Then I’ll let them go.”  

You lowered your piece carefully, placing it on the tiles and kicking it over to him.  Jason kept his eyes on you but his gun on Moore, and he knelt down and groped for your gun.  Once it was in his hand, he pointed it back at you.  You looked at him calmly.  “You made a deal, Jason.  Let me get the children out.”

He nodded again.  “Get them out of the room, but you stay.”  You gave him a tight smile, your hands raised in surrender, then turned to the children in the corner.  You smiled at them and tried to look relaxed.  You looked them over, assessing them.  One girl, a bit taller than the rest, had stopped crying.  She looked terrified, but she looked like she could follow directions.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” you asked.  

“Emily,” she replied, her voice shaky with tears.

“Emily, I’m a cop.”  You pointed at your shield, clipped to the lapel of your blazer. “But I need your help,” you said. “Can you help me?”  She bobbed her head in assent, and you addressed the other three children.

“I need you guys to hold hands with each other.”  You watched them link their hands, then looked at Emily.  “Emily, sweetie, I want you to walk them and yourself out to the street.  Do you think you can do that?”  

“Yes,” she said.  She sounded a bit braver.

“You’re a good girl, Emily,” you smiled.  “I want you to walk out to the street.  Stay on the sidewalk.  Don’t run, just walk nice and slow and don’t stop.”  You heard sirens in the distance.  “Do you hear those?  Those are police and they will help you.  You just walk out of the school and go wait for them, okay?”  

Emily dipped her head at you again and grabbed the hand of the first boy.  “Come on,” she said.  You watched as she led them out of the room, then you sighed in shaky relief.  At least they were safe.  You turned back around and faced Jason.

“Thank you, Jason,” you said.  You kept repeating his name as much as you could, reminding him that he was a person and that you saw him.  “You did a good thing, letting them go.”

He kept your gun pointed at you.  “I never wanted to hurt kids,” he scoffed.  “I wanted to protect them.”

“I know that, Jason.  Everyone knows that.”

“No one else protects them.  Monsters like this can just keep hurting and hurting.”  His eyes flickered back to Moore in utter hatred, pressing the barrel of the gun against his forehead and making the older man wince.

“Jason, we can stop him together.  We have all the evidence we need…”  He cut you off with a bitter laugh.  “Evidence?” he shouted.  “I gave you all the evidence you needed and he’s still here, with new kids to fuck up!” 

You reached your hands out to him in a conciliatory gesture.  “I know. You are right.  But let’s…”  He cut you off again, this time by aiming your gun directly at your chest.  His face was full of fury, the pain etched plainly across his face.  He stared at you, and you felt a bolt of fear go through you.   _This is it_ , you thought.   _I am going to die_.  Your mind fumbled for something to grasp onto, cycling through images and memories, settling on the vision of your hand twined through Rafael’s that first night together, as you sat beside him on the bed in shy anticipation.  You felt a prickle of tears start in your eyes.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered in a harsh whisper. You kept your arms out to him, palms up, as you started to kneel.  

“Jason, there’s still time…”  He shifted the gun so that it was pointed at your face.  His enraged expression drained from his face. He looked at you blankly, and his voice was suddenly monotone.

“No more time,” he declared.  And as you knelt on the hard tile floor, he swiveled in one fluid motion, pulling the trigger of the gun pressed against Moore’s head and turning your gun on himself.  

“No, Jas - !”  He gave you one last blank stare, then cut you off by putting your gun under his jaw and pulling the trigger.

* * *

Barba put the warrant in Liv’s hands.  “Go get ‘em,” he said with a smirk.  She started to reply but her cell phone went off and she answered it.  Barba went to sit down, but froze when she yelled, “What?  Where?”  She turned to look at him, her eyes wide.  “I’m on my way.”  She hung up.

“Shooting at Sacred Heart,” she said, turning to run out of the room.  Barba felt his heart clench in icy fear.  He grabbed his coat and sprinted out after her.  

It was a mob scene at the school.  Armored trucks, police cruisers, ambulances.  ESU swarmed the street, and uniformed cops led lines of wailing children away from the school.  Other police kept the rubberneckers at bay, laying lines of yellow tape.  Barba stayed close to Liv’s heels, following her as she navigated through the throng. The ADA looked in the direction she was walking and saw Amaro.  For once in his life, he was happy to see your partner.  Until he looked closer and saw his pallid face.  And noticed that you weren’t by his side where you usually were.

Amaro glanced at Barba but didn’t react.  Instead, he looked at Liv and updated her.  “ESU is clearing the school.  One dead on the scene so far, the security guard.”  He shook his head violently.  “She got here before me, Liv.  Murphy sent her ahead and she texted me right before she went in.”

Liv nodded.  “She texted me too.”  She laid her hands on her former partner’s shoulders.  “This isn’t on you, Nick.”

Barba felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for Amaro, but he pushed it aside and focused on controlling himself.  He wanted to run into that school and find you – it felt like the emergency services unit was taking an eternity.  He prayed to god, the Virgin Mary, and every saint he could remember from his catechism that he would give anything to have you safe. Anything.

A sergeant from ESU came over to them, his radio crackling and hissing on his shoulder.  “They found the shooter,” he informed Liv.  “Dead, looks like self-inflicted.  And another body.  One to the head, point blank.”  

Barba’s legs felt watery and his head swam.  He reached out and steadied himself against a nearby cruiser.  He mouth filled with the taste of pennies, and he realized that he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.

He was leaning against the cruiser, his mind spinning, when he looked up and saw you.  An ESU officer in full riot gear was guiding you out of the school, his gloved hands on your back and elbow, his arm around your shoulders.  Barba gave out an involuntary cry as he choked back a sob. The ESU officer released you into the secure area, and Liv and Amaro made their way over to you.  Barba waited a moment before he went to join them.  He didn’t trust his legs; he felt like they might fold under him.

He watched as you stood in the middle of the roped off area, your eyes unfocused as your head tilted back like you were trying to look at something in the bright October sky.  Amaro reached you first, and he grabbed your arm.  You swiveled your head down, eyes blank and blinking.  You jerked your arm away from him.  

“Don’t touch me!” he heard you yell.  Your voice sounded hoarse and foreign to him.  You spun away from Amaro, grasping and clawing at your shirt, pulling away at your neckline.  “I can’t breathe,” you choked out.  “Nick, I can’t breathe.”  Barba started to move towards you but you didn’t see him.  You took a single step towards your partner, your face bloodless and your eyes vacant.  They rolled back into your head and your legs crumpled under you.  Nick caught you in a dead faint, and he swept you into his arms and carried you to a paramedic.  

Barba watched, helpless, as they slid an oxygen mask over your face and pried open your eyelids, taking in your unresponsive pupils.  “Shock,” the paramedic said.  “We need to get her to the hospital now.”  They buckled you onto a gurney and loaded you into an ambulance.  Nick climbed in too, and they were gone.  Liv put her hand on Barba’s arm and tugged him towards her SUV. “We’ll meet them there.”

Amaro was sitting on the edge of a chair in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.  He looked up when Barba entered the room.

“Why are you here?” your partner asked the lawyer. Barba considered any plausible lie, then shoved them aside in favor of the truth. 

“I’m here for Y/F/N.”  Amaro’s eyes widened a bit, but then Liv walked in, her cell phone pressed to her ear.  She signed off and hung up, and Amaro filled them in.

“She’s in shock,” he said.  “The doctors are working on her now.  Her blood pressure dropped really low in the ambulance and she was unresponsive.”  He dragged his palms over his face.  “I should have been there with her.”

“You’re here now,” Barba muttered, half to himself. He looked up at your partner and nodded at him begrudgingly.  “And you caught her when she was fell.”

Amaro opened his mouth, but a doctor walked into the room with an update.

“She’s stable now,” he said.  “She’s resting comfortably, but you can stop in for a minute and see her.  We’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”  Liv murmured her thanks and allowed the doctor to lead her to see you.  Amaro and Barba waited their turns.

Your partner cleared his throat after a moment of silence. “So is this just some friends with benefits situation?”  

“That’s none of your business,” the ADA responded.

Amaro turned in his seat to face Barba.  “No, but it is my business,” he declared.  “See, she’s my partner.  You don’t know what that means.  It means that I trust her completely and she trusts me.  It means that I’d give my life for her and she’d do the same.”  Barba narrowed his eyes at him but allowed Amaro to continue.

“It’s my job to protect her.  That’s what partners are.  And she – “ he pointed down the hallway in the direction of your room, “ – she is going to need a lot of support now.  You know the statistics.  You know the toll this job takes.”  Amaro swung his hand around and pointed at Barba, his finger inches from his chest.  “So that’s why it’s my business.  Because if you’re just in this for some casual fling, you need to leave now.”

Barba clenched his jaw.  “I’m here, aren’t I?  And I’m not leaving.”  Your partner stared him down for a minute, then he gave a tight nod.  The two sat in silence for a few moments, and Nick slumped in his chair again.

“Just so you know, Barba – if you hurt her, I’ll hurt you. Lo entiendes?”  

Liv appeared in the waiting room.  “She’s out cold.  They gave her a sedative,” she said.  “But if you want to see her, go ahead.”

Amaro started to stand up but thought better of it.  He sighed, then grumbled, “you go ahead first, counselor.”  

You were curled up on your side, in the fetal position. Your hands were tucked under your chin, and your hair lay in tangled whorls around your head.  Your eyelids looked bruised, and he could see your eyes twitching underneath them.  He pulled a chair to your bedside, then sat down.  He took one of your hands and clasped it between both of his.  It was cool, and he rubbed it gently to warm it up.

He reached one hand out and stroked your face, running his hand over your cheekbones and down the bridge of your nose.  He traced his finger along your lips, which were parted slightly as you breathed deep in your sedation.

He felt his eyes fill with tears.  For that brief, terrible moment at the school, he thought he’d lost you.  Now that you were here in front of him, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into the bed beside you and shield you from anything else.  Because Amaro, he admitted, was right.  You were going to need support, and he was going to make sure you had it.  

Barba took the next morning off to drive you home after you were released from the hospital.  He stood watch outside your bathroom while you showered, even though you stayed in long after the hot water gave out.  He helped you into your comfiest pajamas, then helped you settle into the couch.  He covered you in a blanket, tucking the edges in tight around your body.  He laid out all the necessary supplies on the side table by the couch:  TV remotes, your reading tablet (fully charged), your cell phone.  A couple bottles of water.

He knelt in front of you, looking you over.  You had more color in your face, but there were still dark circles under your eyes.  You saw him watching you and gave him a tired smile.

“Take it easy today,” he said softly.  “Rest, watch some T.V.  Maybe one of those awful police procedurals you’re always making fun of.”  You exhaled a small laugh.  

“I’m okay,” you assured him. 

“I’ll come back right after work,” he promised. “I’ll bring dinner and everything.”

You shook your head slightly.  “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he replied.  “I want to.”  He stood up and then stooped over you, pressing a kiss to the part in your damp hair, breathing in your scent.  He straightened up and point at the side table.  “Read, watch T.V.  Take you mind off of things.  I’ll text you when I’m done with work.”

* * *

You reached for the remote control as Barba left, but then dropped it back on the table when he shut the door behind him.  You sat, staring.  You weren’t sure for how long, but the sun moved across the floor of your living room.

You got up, went to the bathroom.  Drank some water.  Returned to the couch.  You turned on the T.V., cycling through the wasteland of daytime television.  One talk show featured paternity test reveals, another was a courtroom featuring angry couples divorcing.  You settled for a moment on a true crime show that followed homicide detectives throughout their investigation.  When the screen showed the crime scene, the victim’s face blurred out for privacy, you felt your body prickle all over with fear.  Your hands started to sweat and you wiped them over and over on your thighs.  The edges of your vision went black and then slowly advanced, until you couldn’t see anything other than your own hands in your lap, twisting and clenching.  You could feel your heart racing.  It felt like it was going to explode.

As you tried to take deep breaths and get to the other side of your panic attack, you cell phone chimed.  It was Barba, checking on you.  

You typed back with your sweating hands.  “ _I’m fine_.”

“ _Dinner at 6_?” came the reply.

You felt like puking.  The thought of food turned your stomach, and the thought of Barba seeing you as a shaking, sweating mess turned your insides into a squirming mass of anxiety. You thought for a moment, then typed out a lie:

“ _Not hungry. Ordered take out for a late lunch. Mostly just tired.  Going to turn in early tonight.  See you tomorrow maybe_?”

You watched the three little dots of his reply on your screen appear and disappear.  He was struggling with his response.  That’s what you were trying to avoid – the awkward silences as people tried to figure out how to treat you.  You knew it would be tough enough going back to work, but you didn’t want to see Barba looking at you with pity in his deep green eyes.

Finally his replied came through.  “ _I’ll see you tomorrow and bring dinner_ ,” it said.  “ _Please call me if you need ANYTHING_.”

You turned your phone over, the screen facing down. You spent the evening and most of the night on the couch drifting in and out of sleep.

The next morning you met with your union representative and went to IAB to go over what happened.  Ed Tucker made you walk him through the events of the shooting three times, since Jason had disarmed you and then killed himself with your piece. When it was over, you were wrung out and jittery.  

You walked out with your union rep, a gruff bear of a man named Sullivan.  He walked you through your administrative leave while the investigation wrapped up, and then your leave of absence while you recovered.  You’d have to meet with a shrink and be declared fit to return to duty before you could go back to work.  

Sully clapped you on your arm.  “Take it easy, kid.  Maybe a little vacation’ll be good for you.”  You gave him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, then went home.

Barba called you but you let it go to voicemail.  He texted you next, and you pushed him off with the excuse of being tired.  

Nick called the next morning to check on you and fill you in on the SVU gossip.  Murphy was out, back to deep cover.  Liv had been appointed as commanding officer in the interim.  Her first order of business was to put in a request for another detective.  “We’ve been short-handed for a while,” your partner said.  “And now that you…” He trailed off, realizing the implication.  

You gave him a bitter laugh and assured him that you’d be back as soon as NYPD would let you.

Liv dropped by with take-out one night and texted you often to check on you.  Fin sent you a picture that he had taken on the sly with his phone.  It was from a morning briefing and it showed your partner, scowling with crossed arms.  “ _Hurry back_ ,” said Fin’s text.  “ _You’re the only one who can diffuse the Cuban Missile Crisis_.”

Amanda sent you a candy-gram, a basket with an obscene amount of chocolates and cookies.  You texted your thanks.  She replied with a winking emoji and that she thought you would have liked a strip-o-gram better, maybe a buff young guy dressed up as a firefighter, but said that Nick had vetoed the idea.

Barba alternating between texting and calling, asking how you were and if you needed anything from him.  You wanted to see him but you didn’t want him to see you.  You swung between feeling normal and then feeling like every cell in your body was screaming.  Your sleep was thin and you were exhausted.  All it took was someone to slam their door in your building, and the sound could send you into a chain reaction of panicking.  Sometimes you shut your eyes and saw Jason in his final moment, his eyes bleak and staring at you before he turned the gun on himself.

You were in the grip of an extremely bad episode one evening when your phone rang.  You checked it – it was Barba.  You let it go to voicemail, but he called you again.  And then a third time.  

On the fourth time you picked up.  “What’s up?”

There was hesitation on his side of the line.  “I just wanted to see how you were,” he stammered.

“I’ve texted you and told you numerous times,” you said. “I am fine.”

“I know,” he replied.  “I just wanted to talk to you.  Maybe see if I could come over?”  

You felt the tightness in your chest as the panic continued to roll through you.  He couldn’t come over and see you like this.  Why was he even asking, you wondered?  Why was he pretending to care?

“Why?” you asked, harsher than you intended.  You heart was racing so fast that you could feel it jumping in your throat.

The line was quiet.  “I miss you,” he finally said.

Of course.  It had been a couple weeks since he’d been over and the shooting and your administrative leave happened.  He was a red-blooded man.  You were his convenient hookup.  

You closed your eyes and the image of Jason, gun hooked under his jaw, flashed behind your eyelids.  You squeezed your eyes tighter and shook your head, trying to clear the image away.  You clenched your free hand into a sweaty fist, digging your jagged and chewed nails into your palm.

“I’m not really in the mood,” you said through clenched teeth.  Despite the roaring blood in your ears, you heard him sigh.

“That’s fine,” he said.  “I just wanted to…”

“Just wanted to come over and hook-up?” You interjected. “I said I’m not in the mood.”  You opened your eyes and focused on a fixed point on your floor, trying to get the image of Jason’s body out of your head. You had checked first him, then Moore for signs of life after the shooting.  You knew you’d never be able to un-see the scene.  And now here was Barba, flooding you with texts and calls because he was horny and needed an outlet.

“I am worried about you,” he replied, quiet.

“Just leave me the fuck alone, Barba,” you sneered.  “Don’t worry about me and I won’t worry about you, okay?”  You hung up on him, then turned off your phone too.

* * *

He was in hell but didn’t have a way out.  He hadn’t been able to see you since the day you were released from the hospital, and at first, you’d reassured him that you were fine – just tired or not hungry.  Your mask had started to slip though; you took longer to respond to his messages, and when he managed to get you on the phone, you sounded a million miles away.  The last time he talked to you, though, you had snarled at him, then hung up.  He tried to call you back but your phone just went directly to voicemail.

He sent you a few texts that you never responded to.  One Sunday night, he drove to your apartment, but he didn’t have the courage to buzz your apartment.  Instead he sat on the street for a while, watching your window, hoping for a glimpse of you.  The blinds were drawn though, and it looked like your lights were out too.

He tried to talk to Liv, but she was inundated with being the commanding officer.  SVU had always run on the lean side, and with you out, it was even more short-handed.  So Barba put aside his big brass ego and pulled Amaro aside one day.  He told your partner why he was worried about you.  How you didn’t want to talk to him, but how he wanted to make sure you got help. Amaro had listened with narrowed eyes.

“It’s your job to protect her,” Barba reminded Amaro. “She doesn’t want me around, but she needs someone to look out for her.”  Your partner finally nodded.  The two men understood each other.  Amaro set out to visit you and get to the bottom of what you needed to heal, and Barba tried to move on with his life.


	11. Chapter 11

All told, you were out on leave for six weeks.  Nick helped line up everything you needed to start recovering.  Amanda gave you the details about the yoga retreat she attended when she needed help, and you left New York for two weeks.  Costa Rica in September was certainly better than New York’s grey skies, and a change of scenery helped immensely.

Then Nick lined up Liv’s therapist for a referral and you came home to settle into the hard work of recovery.  The problem?  You started therapy for the shooting and the acute PTSD that came from it, but there was so much more under the surface.  It was like stirring up the bottom of a pond:  suddenly everything was murky, and the more your struggled against it, the less clear everything became.

While on leave, you went to therapy every other day and support groups twice a week.  You tried an art therapy group, but you hated making endless collages from pictures cut from old magazines, so you dropped it.  You got a prescription for anxiety medication, hesitated to fill it, then ultimately did. 

Part of your therapy was addressing your inability to ask for or accept help.  You got someone to fill in at your self-defense classes in the Bronx for a month, until you felt stable enough to return.  You ran in the mornings, long stretches along the river that left you physically drained by the end of them.  You found that being exhausted in your body made therapy easier – you didn’t have the energy to fight the words your therapist kept repeating to you:  that it wasn’t your fault, that you deserved to be alive.

Much of the silt that therapy stirred up came from the deep pools of your past.  Your mother abandoning you, leaving you with nothing but your first name.  Never having a father.  Never have a blood family.  Shifting from home to home, some only for a few days.  Others where you stayed long enough to get attached.  A time in a group home when there were no foster families.  The open houses where prospective parents came and met available children.  Getting passed over every time, because you were too old or too sullen, not smiling bright enough.

How you wrapped yourself in layers, so many that no one could get through them all.  Lonely in college, not able to connect with your roommates because they moved in with parents who helped them unpack and hugged them and cried when they left them.  Roommates who moved in with new bedding and mini-fridges and matching luggage.  You didn’t even have that – every time you were shifted to a new foster home, your stuff would be tossed in any cheap duffel bag available.  Sometimes when you moved, your clothes were packed in plastic bags.

Recruited straight from MIT by an FBI supervisory agent with a knack for snatching up geniuses.  But you were lonely there too – your work was grueling.  Constant travel, no time to make connections.  Sometimes you grabbed drinks with them, and you went to karaoke sometimes with the women on the team.  You tracked and caught some of the worst monsters to walk the earth, but there was always another, lurking in the shadows.

Then your recruitment to NYPD.  You had impressive experience for someone so young, and Cragan had wanted someone with your pedigree to help with behavioral analysis and victimology.  You made tentative strides there – Liv was your training partner, and you felt comfortable around her.  You were then paired with Amaro, and that grew into something like a brother and sister relationship.  You were friendly with Amanda, you joked with Fin.  But none of them knew much about you other than the very surface.  You never let them in.

“You need to reach out a hand,” your therapist told you, “if you want someone to take hold.”

So when you were cleared to return to active duty, you decided to start being more open with them.  To maybe reach out a hand.

Your first day back felt awkward, but you had expected that.  It was Fin that finally broke the uncomfortable throat-clearing and paper-shuffling when you walked in.

"You look good, Y/L/N,” he said, coming over to give you a quick hug.  “I was expecting you to come back with a dramatic new haircut.”

“Why is that?” you asked, cocking your head in confusion.

“Isn’t that what people do when they go through it?  Look in their own eyes in a mirror and then cut off all their hair?”  You laughed at him, surprised.  He ran his hand over his own close-cropped head.  “Guess I’m constantly going through some shit then.”

You tossed your head and threw your hair over your shoulder as if you were in a shampoo commercial.  “Same old hair,” you teased.  “Same old me.”

Amanda walked over and hugged you.  “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Nick grinned from his desk and stood up.  “You’re looking good, Y/L/N.” 

You ducked your head with an embarrassed smile.  “What’d I miss?”

Fin and Amanda both laughed as Nick filled you in.  “Just a mayoral candidate.  He sent Rollins a dick pic in a honey-trap we set up.  Turns out, he likes sending them to teen girls too.”  He hesitated and looked at you before adding, “He’s friends with Barba.”

Rollins rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, and you missed several dick-measuring contests between Nick and Barba too.  Everyone’s been traumatized.”

“Ah,” you said, keeping your face neutral.  You knew you’d have to face it sooner or later.  Barba hadn’t called or texted since your nervous breakdown, although you didn’t blame him.  You’d pushed him away, but it wasn’t meant to be anyway.  You took a deep breath and settled yourself, conjuring up what your therapist would say.  It was just part of life, a moment running its course.  You and Barba had fun, and it ran its course. 

Liv came out of the captain’s office and called you in to talk for a moment.  You chatted for a bit about your leave and your therapist.  She tilted her head in sympathy.  You knew she understood.  The William Lewis case had put her through the ringer too.  You thought about it - Amanda had trauma in her past from her old job in Atlanta PD, and Fin was almost killed by a gas trap years ago when a murderer was on the run.  Even Nick, with his abusive father, dealt with those murky waters that kept clarity difficult to attain.  You weren’t as alone as you felt.  Maybe you were all reaching out and trying to grab hold of each other.

Since the case against mayoral candidate Alex Munoz was already in process, she assigned you a case to work on alone.  It was a softball of a case, just something to ease you back in.  You snorted when you read the initial complaint.  A subway masturbator.  Bush league stuff, but you settled in to solve it.

It took two days of scanning security footage at Port Authority.  You found the man and discovered that he boarded the same train at the same station every day.  It was easy enough to follow him onto the subway car and wait.  Two stops in, he was settled into a corner seat, a copy of the Times tented over his frenetically spasming hand as he leered at women. 

You took the case to ADA Rose Calliar, per Liv’s instructions.  Barba’s docket was full.  Rose took the case file from you with a bemused grin. 

"This the subway masturbator?” she asked.  “Isn’t this below your pay grade, detective?”

You shook your head and made yourself look grim.  “He’s a serial – multiple reports on this guy.  Since I’m the one who hunted him down, I get to name him for when this hits the press.  How does ‘the Crosstown Cranker’ sound?”

Rose laughed, then snapped the file shut.  She stood up and led you out of her office.  “I’ll plead it down, but hopefully it’ll send a lesson for him to keep it at home.”  She walked you to the elevator bank.  She paused, her smile fading. 

“I heard all about the shooting,” she said.  “I’m glad to see you back.”  The elevator door opened and you stepped on it, holding the door for a moment. 

“Thank you, counselor.  I’m glad to be back too.”  You tipped your head at her and the doors shut.  The elevator car stopped at every floor on its way down, and people climbed on and off at each.  Then a familiar face entered the elevator.

“Detective Y/L/N,” Carmen said.  She sounded surprised, but she smiled broadly.  “You’re back!”

You grinned back at the woman.  Carmen was always a calm, steady presence in Barba’s office and the two of you had a good rapport as a result.  “It’s good to see you,” the assistant added.

“Same to you,” you replied.  “Lunch break?”

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way.  “You know Barba doesn’t give me lunch breaks.  It’s a coffee run, the third one today already.  He’s been putting in the hours for the past month.  I don’t even think he goes home.  Just works and drinks coffee and barks when he can’t find the file that is right in front of him.”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of Barba, but you repeated to yourself – part of life, ran its course.  Part of life, ran its course.  Your new mantra.

The elevator reached the ground floor and you walked out with Carmen.  When you went to part ways, she turned to you.  She slapped you playfully with the back of her hand.  “Don’t be a stranger.  At the very least, stop by to say hi.  Barba was much nicer when you were around.”

You cleared a couple more softball cases alone, then helped the team catch up on routine paperwork while they wrapped up on building the case against Munoz.  Liv and Nick were in Albany to question a former adult video performer and wouldn’t be back until late.  Fin and Amanda were already gone.  You thought about Carmen’s words.  You had to face Barba eventually, and you had talked about it briefly with your therapist.  It was best to do it on your terms, so you checked the time and gathered up your stuff.  You made your way over to Hogan Place, but first you stopped at the coffee shop that he probably kept afloat on his business alone.  You bought a peace offering and went up to his office.

The floor was quiet.  Most of the offices were dark, but the one you were walking towards had a light spilling from under the half closed door.  You smiled.  You knew he’d be there, even so late in the evening.

As you drew closer, you realized he wasn’t the only one there.  You heard another voice along with his, low and murmuring.  You couldn’t make it out, but you gave the doorjamb a gentle knock and stepped through the partially open door.

You saw her first, the tall woman standing beside Rafael.  Your knock had clearly startled them and they both turned to face you.  They stood close together.  Barba had his suit jacket off, his sleeves partially turned up.  His black suspenders gaped a bit across his belly.  He had lost weight, and his face was thinner and more drawn.  You felt your own stomach twist painfully at the sight of him. 

The woman was gorgeous.  Her heart-shaped face was perfectly framed by her thick black hair, and her makeup was perfectly applied.  She wore a gold evening gown that perfectly hugged her curves.  She looked you up from head to toe; she turned to Barba and asked, “¿Y está quién es? ¿Qué hace aquí?”

You felt the blood drain out of your face, and your refused to look Barba in the eye.  “Soy la detective Y/L/N.  Lo siento.”  You held up the cup of coffee, then sat it on the bookshelf by the door.  “Discúlpenme,” you said, gesturing at it vaguely.  You heard Barba give a huff of laughter at you, and you held back the tears that sprung to your eyes.  He had already moved on with some beautiful woman _and_ he was laughing at you.  You turned on your heel and fled.

 

* * *

When you walked in on Barba and Yelina, you had interrupted a furiously whispered argument.  Yelina had visited under the pretense of a social call, but her intentions became quickly apparent.  When Barba tried to explain that he couldn’t stop the wheels of justice, she turned angry, as she always did.  She accused him of being a sell-out, of being jealous of Alex.  Then you had knocked and stepped into the office and Barba felt the wind get punched out of him.

You looked great.  It was a far cry from the last time he had seen you, huddled and silent on your couch the day after the shooting.  Your hair was loose around your shoulders, and your eyes were bright.  Until he saw them look from him to Yelina and back.  He knew that look, the one where the gears in your head were turning.  He saw you putting together a working theory.  _Shit_ , he thought.

Of course Yelina had been rude, asking him who you were and why you were there in Spanish like you weren’t even there.  But you had surprised him by responding in Spanish, and then apologizing in Spanish.  And the coffee you had apparently brought him as an apology - that you plunked down on his shelf.  He had snorted at the expression on Yelina’s face.  His ex likely wasn’t expecting the gringuita to understand her, let alone answer her.  He saw the ripple of emotion that crossed your face before you scurried out of his office.  _Shit_ , he thought again.

He wondered if he should call you, but you hadn’t reached out and he didn’t want to bother you.  He hoped that he could see you at work and maybe have at least a cordial relationship.  If nothing else, he missed the old days, when you and Amaro marched into his office and you served as a referee.  Or when you were in the courtroom behind him, lending your support during trial.  Or when he rounded the corner to enter the bullpen, and the first sight he saw was your head bent over your desk, your neck curving as you studied files or wrote out reports.  He knew the two of you could never go back to those days, but at least back then, he had a small piece of you.  Now he had nothing.

You ducked him.  You had small cases and usually took them to Calliar.  You had a few cases for Cox too.  None for him.  When he came to the precinct, you always found a reason to be somewhere else, usually in the break room or the records room a few floors up. 

He saw your picture one morning in the paper.  NYPD had held its award ceremony, and you had been given a commendation for your actions in the shooting at Sacred Heart.  He stared at the picture:  you in your dress blues, your hair pinned up under your hat, one gloved hand on the plaque and the other hand shaking with the commissioner.  For the first time in his life, Barba understood the appeal of a person in uniform.  He kept the newspaper in the top drawer of his desk so that he could look at it.  He bought a copy for his desk at home too.  If you were going to dodge him, at least he could have a picture of you.

He finally saw you one evening.  He stopped by to drop off a subpoena for Liv.  You were leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head with an audible yawn.  He stood back and watched you as you stood up and put on your coat.  When you turned around, you jumped a bit, startled by his sudden appearance.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you replied.

“Congratulations on the commendation.” 

Your cheeks turned a bit pink.  “Thanks.”

Then Liv interrupted, and by the time he was done walking her through the subpoena, you were already gone.

 

* * *

Your life hit a routine:  running, work, and therapy.  And sleep.  You were starting to finally sleep without dreams.  Then life threw a curve ball. 

Nick, your partner who tended to punch his way into trouble, was arrested after assaulting a photographer.  The creep was suspected of collecting kiddie torture porn.  It was a case they worked while you were on leave.  So life became running, work, and therapy.  And trips to Rikers to visit Nick while he waited for word of what would happen to him.

Liv finally got her request for a new detective approved, so she used it as an opportunity to shift everyone around.  You and Fin were paired up, and Amanda got the new guy.  Since Fin was the most senior detective, it made sense.  Amanda could train the newest addition, and when Nick came back, you could pair back up with him.  Fin could serve as a floater or Liv’s number two, as necessary.

You were happy to be partnered with Fin.  He was unflappable, a cool head in nearly all situations.  It was nice to work with a calm partner for once instead of having to be the calm one.  You were looking forward to being the bad cop for once, you thought jokingly.  A proper wild card.  Maybe you could take up smoking next, buy a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.  Amanda, however, was less happy.

“Why do you get to steal my partner?” she complained.  She was mostly joking, but not completely.  “I’m the second-most senior detective, so by all rights, _you_ should be training the new guy.”  She was perched on the edge of your desk, waiting for him to arrive.  You were all milling around and pretending to work.  A new detective was an event.

“Liv is probably playing Cupid,” you joked.  Amanda scoffed at you.

He walked in ten minutes ahead of his start time.  He was lanky, and he wore a suit that was half a size too big for him.  His dark blond hair was slicked back tight to his skull, and it curled at the back of his neck.  He had bright blue eyes, a big mustache set over his smile, and he shifted the bag in his hand as he introduced himself.   
  
“I’m Dominick Carisi Junior,” he said, shaking everyone’s hands.  “But call me ‘Sonny’ – everyone does.”  He had a thick Staten Island accent, and he jiggled the bag at each of you in turn.  “My ma makes the best zeppole.  Have one.”

You humored him and took a pastry, then walked over to Amanda.  You leaned over and whispered, “Enjoy training your new partner.”  You looked over at him, considering his awful mustache and knew Amanda was judging him for it too.  “At least he’ll be good for UC work when we need a convincing-looking creep.”  She laughed and smacked you on your arm, and you both returned to your desks to start the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Tumblr using @controllingkittens for helping me with the Spanish on this one!


	12. Chapter 12

Barba was exhausted and burnt out.  He had been working furiously to catch up on his caseload before his Christmas break, which was only a month away.  The case with Alex took a lot out of him too.  He had dropped weight, usually too tired or busy to remember to eat.  He felt homesick for the first time in a long time.  So he decided to take Sunday off and found himself on Jerome Avenue, spending the day with his mother, Lucia Barba.

It had been too long.  Both mother and son were crushed by their workloads – him with the D.A.’s office, she with the charter school she ran.  They sat at his childhood kitchen table and shared cups of strong coffee and pastelitos that he had picked from the corner bakery.  They caught up on each other’s lives and talked about the neighborhood and memories from the ADA’s childhood.

He walked with her to the nearby grocery to get some staples for his grandmother, Catalina.  She lived a few blocks away in a six story walkup, and she struggled with heart issues, so a lot of the load fell onto Lucia.  Rafael was happy to help; he was guilty that he didn’t help more.  After his grandmother’s latest stint in the hospital, he had started researching assisted living options.  The old woman refused to even listen to him, though, stubborn as a rock. 

Once they got to the grocery store, Lucia ran into an old friend of hers and, before long, the two women were gossiping and laughing.  Rafael eased the shopping list from his mother’s wildly gesturing hand, then got started on the shopping.  He wandered the narrow aisles, consulting his abuelita’s cramped handwriting from time to time and scanning the shelves for what she needed.

When he turned the corner to enter the next aisle, he saw you standing there.  The sight froze him in place.  You were standing in the middle of the aisle, facing the shelf.  You held a small jar in each hand, your eyes shifting from one label to the next, reading and comparing. 

He drank in the sight of you.  You were in compression tights that ended at your knees, leaving your shapely calves bare.  His eyes drifted up, lingering over your thick runner’s thighs and rounded backside.  You wore a fleece zippered hoodie, and you had a gym bag crossed over your chest.  Your hair was pulled into a high ponytail that made you look almost girlish.

Rafael remembered that you taught a class in the Bronx.  Self-defense, to help protect the locals from the smart-assed Terror of Jerome Avenue.  He remembered your quip about him and smiled sadly.  He started to back away before you saw him, but his mother chose that moment to come up behind him.  “What do we still need to get?” she asked.  You started at her voice and turned to look at who was speaking.  Your eyes widened when you saw Barba, and he saw your gaze dart around, as if you were assessing your options for escape.  Rafael drew in a deep breath. 

“Y/F/N,” he said. 

You shifted your eyes from his face to Lucia, standing beside him.  Then you held out the containers in your hands and explained simply, “I needed saffron and was in the area.”

Rafael furrowed his brow.  Did you think he was upset to see you?  He didn’t know what to say, but his mother spoke up.

“Y/F/N Y/L/N?” she asked.  She walked over to you and continued, “from Rafi’s work?”  You looked ready to run, but you nodded faintly at her question.  Lucia reached down and grabbed your right hand, pulling the container of saffron out of your grip so that she could shake with you.

“He talks about you,” the older woman said.  “All the time.”

Then Lucia reached down and took the other spice container from your left hand and held them up, examining the labels in Spanish.  “You need help translating?”  Before you could answer, she explained what each label said, and your eyes darted between her and Rafael.  He came to stand beside his mother, gazing at you with a soft smile on his face. 

“Y/F/N, this is my mother, Lucia Barba,” he said.  “Mami, this is Y/F/N.”

“Pleased to meet you,” you replied.  Lucia responded by holding out the saffron to you.

“You making a paella?  This brand is good for that.  Gives better color.”  She handed it to you and re-shelved the other jar, then hooked her arm around yours, pulling you down the aisle alongside her.  You shot a bewildered look over your shoulder at Rafael, and he shrugged at you as if to say, “ _I can’t stop her_.”

Lucia dragged you through the store, Rafael trailing behind the two of you with the shopping basket.  His mother peppered you with questions (“How are you doing?  Rafi told me all about the shooting.  You doing better now?  Taking care of yourself?”), but she didn’t actually give you a chance to answer.  She punctuated her interrogation by reaching for items, tossing them back into the basket in Rafael’s hands.  Then she kept questioning you.  (“You need anything else?  Just saffron?  You should get some rice here if you need some, they have the best prices in the neighborhood.”)

Rafael watched your face when you turned to follow Lucia’s pointing or when his mother steered you into another aisle.  You looked caught between bemusement and bewilderment, your smile widening and fading, back and forth while you tried to follow Lucia’s questions.  You were usually the one doing the interrogating, so being on the receiving end of such a grilling was probably new territory for you. 

He smiled at the sight of you and his mother, arms threaded – well, Lucia had your arm in a firm, familiar grip, and you were probably too polite to untangle yourself.  He watched his mother make a joke that he missed, and she tilted her head towards you as you laughed. 

Lucia pulled you towards the entrance and you each had your orders rung up.  You exited the store together, and Lucia took your arm again in companionable ease.  Rafael trailed, laden down with bags.

“Come have dinner with us,” his mother told you.  It was an order, not an offer, but you stalled on the sidewalk and turned to Rafael for help.

“Uh….” you started.  “I don’t want to intrude….”  Your eyes searched his face for support and he started to speak, but Lucia talked over her son.

“You’re not intruding,” she said.  “We’re going over to my ma’s.  She’s making ropa vieja.”  She tugged you along, and Rafael gave you that helpless shrug again.  “She’d love to meet you, Y/F/N.  She’s heard all about you too.”

You shot another look over your shoulder at the ADA, and he gave you a slight nod.  No use in denying it – he had talked about you endlessly with his mother and grandmother.  He saw your struggle plainly on your face though.  You wanted to escape but were caught up in the force of his mother’s strong personality.  You weren’t the first person to find yourself swept up in Lucia’s open charm. 

“If you need to get going, Y/F/N, you don’t have to come with us,” Rafael said gently.  Then he added, smiling at you when your eyes flickered to his, “but my abuela’s ropa vieja _is_ the best.”  You opened your mouth to protest, but Lucia added her own enticement.  “And we can show you some photo albums.  Rafi was so cute in his Little League uniform.”

The ADA closed his eyes with a groan, and when he opened them, he saw you grinning widely at his mother. 

“Mrs. Barba,” you said, glancing back at him for a moment, taking in his crimson face, “I would be _delighted_ to have dinner with you.”

* * *

Your first thought when you turned and saw Barba watching you in the store was to run.  You felt grimy with dried sweat from the self-defense class, and you didn’t want him to think that you were stalking him.  Of all the neighborhood grocery stores in the Bronx, you had chosen the one he shopped at with his mother.  You should have just ordered the saffron online.  But the thought that you may run into him never crossed your mind.  You pretty much assumed he was always in his office in mid-town in some variation of his standard suit.  Here he was though:  looking as handsome as always, if a bit thin and worn-down, in jeans and a grey sweater. 

You started to formulate your plan for escape, but then Lucia had charged you, pulling you along like a hurricane-force wind.  Before you even knew it, you were through the checkout line, being dragged down the street towards Barba’s grandmother’s apartment, being pressed to eat dinner with them.  You turned and looked at him, trying to convey your reluctance with your eyes.  He just shrugged and smiled at you.  The jerk.

And _then_ Lucia had sweetened the pot by offering up embarrassing childhood photos of Rafael and you were in. 

Catalina Diaz’s apartment was an old pre-war building with narrow stairs, and by the time you were at her door, you were all out of breath.  Lucia knocked, then let herself in with her keys, pulling you along.

The old woman was in a floral housedress and slippers.  Her grey hair was shot through with silver, chin length.  She had glasses set on her nose with deep green eyes sparkling behind the lenses.  She greeted you by the door, pulling Lucia in for a hug. 

“You brought el juez,” she told her daughter, looking at Rafael.  She shifted her eyes to you, looking you over with seeming recognition, then added, “and you brought his girlfriend too.”

You tried to correct her.  “Oh, I’m not his girl…” but Rafael cut you off by stepping around you to embrace his grandmother.

“Abuelita, I’m not a judge,” he remarked, kissing her.  The old woman turned to you with a smile and held out her arms for an embrace.  You didn’t even bother hesitating – you knew enough of Rafael, and now his mother to realize that resistance was futile.  You hugged her and allowed her to kiss you on the cheek.  She pushed you away so that she could peer up into your face, looking you over again.

“You’re just as beautiful as Rafi said,” Catalina declared, and you caught Rafael’s nervous cough behind you.  “You’ve come for dinner?”

You gestured at your appearance.  “It wasn’t planned, Mrs. Diaz.  We just ran into each other.”  You explained the self-defense class you taught.  “I would have worn something more appropriate otherwise.”

Catalina waved you off and turned to lead you and Lucia and Rafael into the kitchen.  You stood awkwardly by the table as they unpacked their groceries, Catalina looking everything over and Rafael and his mother putting them away.  She interspersed her instructions to them by conversing with you, telling you how she saw your picture in the paper when you got your commendation.

“Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes,” the old woman said.  “Go make yourself at home and I’ll call you in when it’s ready.”

Lucia cut in.  “Actually, ma, why don’t Rafi and I finish up?  You go keep Y/F/N company in the living room.  I promised her that she could see the family photo albums.”  She glanced at her son with a sly grin, then added, “show her those pictures from when Rafi was a baby getting a bath.”  She dropped a wink at you and laughed.  Rafael had his back to you, placing a box of crackers in a cabinet, but you could see the flush on the back of his neck.

“I would love nothing more, ma’am,” you told Catalina solemnly.  She patted your arm and led you into the living room.

“Call me Catalina,” she said.  She made you sit on the couch, then pulled album after album from a bookshelf and sat them on the coffee table in front of you.  She settled in beside you, and you sat hip to hip, thumbing through the pages and pointing.

“That’s my husband and I when we were just married in Havana…here we are in our first apartment in New York City.  Here’s Lucia as a baby – she had a full head of dark hair and never slept.”  She turned pages, showing you Lucia’s wedding to her husband.  You studied the photo – Rafael was a close copy of his father:  the same build, the same strong features across handsome faces.  You knew a bit about his father, mainly that he was abusive.  You wondered how it affected Rafael, to look in the mirror and see a version of the man who had beaten his mother and himself.

Catalina flipped through the pages.  “Here’s Rafi as a baby.”  She lingered on each picture, pointing.  You alternated between laughing and cooing over the baby pictures – Rafael asleep in Lucia’s arms, Rafael at his baptism, squalling and red-faced as the priest poured water over his head.  Catalina turned to the next page, and you burst into a scream of laughter, making the old woman laugh too.  Two pages of a chubby baby Rafael in the kitchen sink, naked for a bath.  You were practically vibrating with glee.  You seriously considered distracting the woman so you could swipe one.  With blackmail like that, you would never have to argue for a warrant ever again. 

She kept going, showing you scenes from a life you could only imagine before.  Rafael in his Little League uniform (looking miserable), school portraits in terrible shirts and awful haircuts.  A picture from a formal dance, a skinny Rafael in an oversized suit, standing stiffly beside a girl who looked like the tall woman from his office that night.  Catalina tapped on the picture.  “His first girlfriend, Yelina.”  She scoffed, and added, “She broke his heart.”  You felt your stomach turn at the realization that Barba had been canoodling with his ex-girlfriend, but it made sense.  She was gorgeous and familiar, so the two of them reconnecting was only natural.

You pointed at the picture too.  “That haircut is breaking _my_ heart,” you joked, tracing your finger across Rafael’s over-gelled spiked mess of hair.

High school graduation photos, and pictures from his graduation from Harvard in a black robe and crimson stole.  Then the photos shifted to other people – cousins and distant relatives, wedding and newer baby pictures.  Rafael appeared in some group shots at family gatherings, but that was it.  You flipped the pages back to the bath photos and went back to cackling at them wildly.

You were interrupted by Rafael clearing his throat in the doorway.  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.  His voice sounded angry, but you saw the smile in his eyes.

“Oh, this is the best time I’ve had in years,” you answered.  “Possibly my whole life.”  You gave the pictures one last glance, chortling at them, then closed the book.  “I can die happy now, seeing our killer ADA naked as a chubby baby.”

He narrowed his eyes and smirked, but didn’t respond.  Instead, he told you that dinner was ready. 

 

Lucia heaped your plate with ropa viaja and rice, and after Rafael said the blessing, you all tucked in to eat.  You tried not to audibly moan – the food was delicious, and you were starving from your earlier workout.  Catalina and Lucia asked about your leave from the shooting, and you assured them that you were feeling much better thanks to therapy. 

Catalina nodded at you.  “It’s good that you got help,” she said.  Rafael rolled his eyes and his grandmother caught him and understood his meaning.

“I don’t need help, Rafi,” she warned.  “Y/F/N went through a bad time.  I’m just slowing down a bit.”

“You live in a death-trap,” Rafael started, and the two were off, arguing.  You and Lucia were quite forgotten as their voices rose.  Catalina was happy where she was, she didn’t want to die in a nursing home.  Rafael was worried about her, he wanted her to have people around to help her.  She didn’t need help.  He insisted she did.  Back and forth. 

You watched them and then noticed Lucia watching you.  “It’s always like this,” she said.  “They’re both too stubborn.”

You smiled at her.  “What that called, the shield and spear paradox?”  She cocked her head at you, confused, and you told her while you gestured between Rafael and his grandmother.  “This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”  Lucia smiled and nodded, understanding your meaning.

Catalina turned to you.  “You work with Rafi.  Is he this pig-headed at work?”

The corner of your mouth quirked into a smile.  “He can be.”  He scoffed beside you, but Catalina continued. 

“But you can get him to give in?” she asked.  You opened your mouth to answer and she talked over you.  “Tell him that he can’t make me move.”

You hesitated for a moment, then turned to the ADA with an apologetic shrug.  “I sort of agree with her,” you said softly.  “I wouldn’t want to die surrounded by strangers in a strange place.”  You noted the pain behind his eyes and guessed at the guilt that caused it.  So you turned to Catalina.

“But if I learned anything in therapy, it’s that you have to be willing to accept help when you need it,” you said, gentle as you could.  The old woman made a tsking sound in her throat, and you continued.  “Why can’t you meet him halfway?  Instead of moving, maybe have someone to help you.  Do your shopping, clean up for you.  It doesn’t need to be either or.  It can be a bit of both.”

The table was silent and you turned red.  You stepped in it this time.  You looked down at your plate, pushing a few grains of rice around with your fork.  Then Lucia reached across the table top and grasped your free hand, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Rafi said you were smart,” she said.  “And you got these two to shut up for a second and think about compromising.”  You looked up at her, and she was smiling at you kindly.

You smiled back.  “Well, family can be tough,” you replied.  “And it’s probably worse for you because stubbornness is hereditary.”  She laughed and Catalina joined her.  You slid your gaze over to look at Rafael, and he was contemplating you with an unreadable expression.  But you thought you saw a film of tears in his eyes.

* * *

You both walked Lucia back to her apartment, thanking his mother for dinner and watching her enter her building with a wave.  Then you turned to part.  “I have to get going,” you said shyly.  “I’ve needed a shower for hours now.”

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked.  You fiddled with the giant container of leftovers that his abuelita had pressed on you to take home. 

“I don’t want to put you out,” you replied.  “The subway is fine.”

Rafael scoffed.  “Your support of the MTA is admirable, detective” he joked, “but it’s not a problem to drop you off.”  You thought for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip.  “Unless you’re tracking another subway masturbator, that is.”  You chucked, then agreed to the lift.

The ride back to Manhattan was quiet at first.  He wanted to steer the conversation around to the evening that you walked in on him and Yelina.  Obviously, nothing had happened, but you didn’t know that.  So he talked about how busy work was.  He asked about your caseload.  You told him about the new detective and his penchant for inserting his foot in his mouth.  He told you how he was trying to catch up for Christmas break, three weeks away, so that he could take his annual ski trip to Switzerland. 

“That sounds nice,” you said with a smile.  You explained how Amanda would be in Atlanta.  Fin would probably split his time between marathon video game sessions and visiting his son and son-in-law.  Nick was out of jail after the assault charges were dropped, and he was heading out to California to visit his children over the holidays.  Liv would be working, but shorter hours, since she had recently became a foster mother to an infant boy named Noah

“While you’re sipping scotch in some fancy chalet, I’ll be covering Christmas Eve day with Carisi.  He’ll probably bring his ma’s cannoli’s and force-feed me until I’m in a sugar coma.  Feeding people is like a religion to him,” you joked.  You tapped on the Tupperware container in your lap.  “Kinda like Cuban abuelas.”

“I think that’s a universal grandma thing,” he teased back.  His voice turned serious.  “I’m sorry if that was awkward.  Once my mother gets rolling….” He trailed off.

You shook your head.  “It was really nice actually.  You have a great family.”  And then you added, shyly, “It was good to see you again too.”

Rafael felt his heart leap in his chest.  He turned onto your street.  “It was good to see you too, Y/F/N.”

You were both quiet as he found a spot to pull into.  He shifted the car into park, letting his hand rest on the shifter.  He watched you out of the corner of his eye, and he caught you watching his hand.  His heart lurched again.

“Y/F/N,” he started.  You interrupted him.

“I’m sorry I barged in your office that evening,” you said.  You traced your fingers restlessly around the edges of the container in your lap, focused on that and not looking at him.  “And I’m sorry about how I treated you….before.”  You glanced up at him, your Y/E/C eyes sad, then looked back down at your lap and continued.

“I was in a really bad place and took it out on you.”  He tried to butt in, but you stopped him.  “Please let me finish,” you said.  He nodded.

“I know you sent Nick over to give me tough love, and I want to thank you for that.”  Your words were halting.  “I may not have made it if you…Nick…everyone hadn’t stepped in.  Every day is still tough, but it’s getting better and I feel…like I might be okay someday.”  You drew in a shaky breath and let it out, composing yourself.

Barba reached out and took your hand gently, stilling it from its restless fidgeting.  But you pulled it away, tucking it in your other hand and clasping them both tight in your lap.

“And I want you to know that I’m….happy for you,” you whispered.  “I want you to be happy, and I’m glad….”  You trailed off and turned your head away from him, but Barba could see your reflection in the car window.  He saw the tears that were threatening to fall.

He didn’t let you continue.  “Yelina and I used to date.  She came to my office that night to try and get me to stop the investigation into her husband, Alex.”  You turned to face him, and he continued.  “When we were dating, she cheated on me with Alex and then married him.  When I told her I couldn’t help her, she got angry.  Called me a traitor to the neighborhood, said I was jealous that Alex was going to be the next mayor.”

You shook your head carefully.  “I didn’t know that.  I just heard you laugh at me and I ran.”

He laughed now, softly.  “Of course I laughed at you.  You should have seen the look on Yelina’s face when she realized you understood her.”  He chuckled at the memory.  “She was always like that – rude.”  He reached over and tapped you on the back of your hand.  “To be fair though, I didn’t know that you spoke Spanish either.”

You shrugged.  “Made sense to learn it.”  You thought about it for a moment.  “But my pronunciation isn’t great.  I can’t roll my r’s.  My tongue doesn’t work that way, I guess.”

Barba bit back the obvious quip that came to his mind about how your tongue worked.  Instead, he kept the conversation on track.  “Yelina and I aren’t together,” he said. 

You sighed.  “It’s not my business either way.”

“I want to be able to see you,” Barba admitted, shifting both of his hands onto the steering wheel and gripping it.  “I don’t want you to hide from me at work anymore.  Can’t we at least grab lunch sometimes or meet for coffee?”  He felt your hesitation and added, softly, “I miss you.”

You unclasped your hands and grabbed the handle of the car door.  You turned to face him, looking him in the eye for a split-second before you glanced away.  You pursed your lips in thought and nodded.  “That would be nice,” you whispered.  “I’ve missed you too.”  And then you slid out of the car, shutting the door behind you carefully, and went into your building quickly, without looking back.


	13. Chapter 13

That night, about an hour after Barba dropped you off, he texted you.  He wanted to grab a coffee the next morning before work.  You smiled at how quickly he had reached out.  Your stomach would have fluttered like it did every time you saw him or heard from him, but it was still too full of ropa viela – Catalina had pressed seconds and thirds onto you, proclaiming that you had to ‘keep your energy up’ if you had to work with her headstrong grandson.  You agreed to meet him at a café halfway between both of your workplaces.

You couldn’t deny how happy it made you when he admitted that he and Yelina weren’t together again.  And meeting his mother and grandmother had been an unexpected happy accident.  There was a lot of love between them, and you’d instantly felt comfortable once you were settled in Catalina’s apartment.  That must be what a family is like, you thought.  The naked baby pictures were just the delicious cherry on top of the entire day.  You went to bed happy, for the first time in a long time, and if you had any bad dreams, you didn’t remember them upon waking.

The next morning, you woke up twenty minutes early to spend extra time on your makeup and hair.  But the subway broke down halfway in, and you disembarked early and jog-walked your way to the café in the cold December morning.  By the time you got there, you only had ten minutes before you had to continue on to work, and your nose had been bright red from jogging in the cold.  Barba had grinned at you and handed you his handkerchief after he handed you your coffee.  You had exactly enough time to stammer at each other shyly about your busy day ahead.  Then you had to leave for work.

SVU continued to change.  Nick was back from his probation in with the 116th in Queens, and you were partnered back up.  Liv’s post as commanding officer shifted from interim to official, and she was promoted to lieutenant.  She was currently working on finding a new sergeant, which would bring SVU up to full staffing for the first time ever.  And Carisi shaved his mustache off, which made him immediately more likable. 

You were all busy as you worked to catch up on the caseload.  SVU did tend to wind down a bit around the end of the year, for some reason.  You sat back in your chair, tapping the tip of your pen against your teeth.  It would make an interesting thesis.  You looked at the stack of folders on your desk and considered applying for a grant.  You could spend the next five years researching why sex crimes fell during the holidays instead of investigating them. 

Barba called you to go to lunch the following week, and you met in the hole-in-wall deli again.  He waited for you outside in the cold, and as you walked up to him, you admired his profile.  His head was bent over his phone, bundled in a camel colored wool coat and striped scarf.  Even bundled up, you could tell that he’d lost weight in the past few months.  His face was stony in concentration, but when he caught your approach out of the corner of his eye, his eyes lit up and he smiled at you.  It was contagious and you couldn’t help but smile back at him.

This time, you took a longer lunch than before, talking about work and touching lightly on topics like your recovery.  You gave him the very surface details, like your yoga retreat in Costa Rica.  He smiled at this, and you told him about your disastrous attempts at art therapy.    
  
“By the time the old magazines came around to me, everyone had already cut out the good words like ‘dream’ and ‘love,’” you explained around bites of your pickle spear.  “So my collage was nothing but made up words from medication ads that just sounded nice.  Abilify, Daypro.  Restylane injectables.”  He laughed at this, and you felt the tightness in your chest release a touch.  You were relieved that you could open up a bit and not be a complete kill-joy. 

 

The next day, Barba sent you a text that he’d be at the 16th precinct early, but that was the day your subway line broke down again.  You came in late, for the first time in your tenure at SVU, sweating and overheated from the sprint in your winter coat and scarf.  Barba stayed long enough to say ‘good morning,’ then he had to head to court.  During a recess, he texted you to see if you were interested in dinner, perhaps.  You said you were, and you decided to head home after work to change.

Your subway broke down between stops on the way home, and you had to cancel on Barba.  You stood in the subway car for two hours, fuming in the fug of odors that your fellow mass transit commuters gave off.  The MTA made an announcement the next day that they’d be working on the line over the holidays, and you forwarded it to Barba, apologizing for flaking on him and joking that the public transit system was rapidly losing your support.  He replied that you should look into a novel new idea called “car ownership.” 

“Smart ass,” you replied.

It was the last week before Christmas, and SVU began to empty out.  Amanda flew out to Georgia, Nick went to California.  The stack of folders on your desk got smaller and smaller.  Barba was wrapping up his final bits of paperwork before he headed to Switzerland.  Liv left early when she could to get ready for her and Noah’s first Christmas together.  You and Carisi fought over which restaurant had the best pizza, so you took turns ordering in for lunch and comparing pies. 

It was a few days before Christmas Eve, and you and the newest detective were sitting at the conference table in the bullpen, splitting a goat cheese and tomato for lunch.  He was telling you about Christmas with his family on Staten Island. 

“It’s nice to all be together,” he said, his mouth full of pizza.  “But between my parents and sisters and all my nieces, I always end up on the couch in the basement.”

You looked him up and down, considering his height.  “Don’t you fit on it?”

He shook his head.  “Barely, but Bella and her boyfriend Tommy used to make out on it when they were in high school.  I can’t sleep on it without thinking about all the germs.”

You snorted.  He was a known germaphobe, but he was probably missing the obvious issue.  “Carisi, I think germs are the least of your problems.”  He looked confused.  “You work in SVU.  You know about….fluids.”

His face rippled in disgust and he pointed at your face.  “That’s not funny, Y/L/N.”

You laughed and continued.  “Just think about it when you’re down there, trying to sleep….” He protested and you tried to talk over him, the two of you squabbling as he made horrified sounds and you tried to repulse him further.  You had to admit that you liked the newest detective.  He had grown on you.  True, he had a tendency to speak before he thought, but you’d be a hypocrite if you didn’t admit you had the same problem sometimes.  And he’d shaved off his appalling mustache.  He was a good detective and was finding his footing at SVU.  Plus, you liked not being the newest detective anymore.  Now there was someone else to call Liv when there was bad news.

You and Carisi were cleaning up from your pizza party when Barba walked into the precinct.  He looked between the two of you.

“Counselor,” Carisi said.  “The Lieu’s not here.  She took Noah to get pictures with Santa.”

“Then I need to talk to the next person in charge,” he replied smoothly.  He nodded at you, making Carisi huff in indignation.  You led Barba into a conference room and shut the door.

“What’s up?” you asked, your brows drawn in concern.  “Your trial is done, I thought.  Aren’t you flying out tomorrow?”

“It is, and I am,” he said.  He took a deep breath.  “I wanted to make you an offer.”

You perched yourself on the edge of the table.  “Okay,” you said.

He toyed with the edge of his scarf.  “I’m on vacation starting tomorrow until the end of the year,” he said.  “And my apartment will be sitting empty.”  He studied you a moment, then continued.  “I thought with all the transit problems, maybe you could stay there while I’m gone.  It’s within walking distance to the precinct – for you, anyway - so you wouldn’t be stuck underground.”

You tilted your head and looked at him quizzically.  “And after Christmas Eve day, I’m off for a four-day weekend.  And subway breakdowns happen all the time.”

He nodded.  “Yes, but they’ll be taking it offline during the next few weeks and it’ll be tough.  And my place will just be sitting empty.  It makes sense:  you’ll be close to work and you can watch your terrible Christmas movie on my big screen with surround sound.  It’ll be helping me out too.  You can bring in my mail and eat the food in my refrigerator so that it doesn’t go to waste.  Water my tree, things like that.”

You smiled at him.  “Why do you have a tree if you aren’t going to be here for Christmas?”

He shrugged.  “I like the way it makes my apartment smell, and my cleaning service sets it up and takes it down for a fee.”

“Ooh, your _cleaning service_ ,” you declared with a grin.  “And I’m not sure that _the Star Wars Holiday Special_ will be improved on a big screen.”  Your face turned serious.  “It would be nice to just walk to work though.  I’m tired of marinating in subway funk every time it breaks down.  Are you sure?  I wouldn’t want it to be weird.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a spare key on a leather fob, dangling it in front of you.  “Not weird.  Just don’t read my diary, no wild parties with all your friends, and if you use my personal computer, stay out of my search history.”  You laughed and reached for the key, but he jerked it away with a smirk.  Then his face softened and he handed it to you, his fingertips brushing against your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly.  “This is really nice of you.”  You thought about your therapist’s words, how reaching how for help and taking hold was your own responsibility.  You knew she’d be proud to learn that you accepted help that you hadn’t even asked for.  It was something to talk about in your next appointment before you went back to the well-worn bits about your mother. 

He went to leave, his hand on the doorknob.  “No need to thank me,” he replied, his smirk firmly back on his face.  “And know that I’ve placed hidden cameras all over the apartment and will be keeping an eye on you.”  He winked at you, then turned and left.

* * *

On Christmas Eve day, you and Carisi were bored stiff.  Liv stopped in for an hour to swap out the paperwork she was handling at night when Noah was asleep.  You caught up on all the administrative drudgery that you had pushed off throughout the year.  Carisi, being new without a huge backlog of work, wiped his desk down with Lysol wipes, then moved on and cleaned all the conference room desks and tables.  By the end of your shift at five, the bullpen smelled like lemon disinfectant.

You put on your coat and hat and wound your scarf around your neck.  You slung your messenger bag across your chest and grabbed your duffel bag for your next few days at Barba’s apartment.  You figured that over the weekend, you could go back to your place and swap out clothes.  Plus, Barba had an in-apartment washer and dryer, and you planned on washing all of your sheets and towels, enjoying the luxury of not sitting in a laundromat for four hours only to end up leaving with damp clothes anyway.  If he could afford a cleaning service, you thought with a grin, he could afford a slightly higher water bill.

Carisi walked out with you.  “Merry Christmas, Y/L/N,” he said with a wave.  You waved back and parted ways.  You buried your nose in the loops of your scarf, bracing against the wind.  You decided to walk to the apartment despite the weather.  The cold was brisk, but it cleared your head from Carisi’s cleaning fumes.  You put in your headphones and queued up a good playlist.

You were about four blocks away when Barba called.  You fumbled with your gloves and answered it.

“I’m about to board my plane in ten minutes,” he said.  “You on your way?”  You said you were.

“Good,” he replied.  “I’ve left some instructions for the security system, in case it starts chirping.  It does that sometimes in the middle of the night.”  There was a pause on the line.  “I didn’t want you to be startled by it.  I was worried it might set off…”

You smiled, taking his meaning.  “Thanks for that.  I’m not waking up to panic attacks anymore though.”

“I have one change-over and will be in the air for about thirteen hours.”  There was another pause.  “I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, Y/F/N.”

Your smile widened and your eyes misted a bit.  “Merry Christmas to you, Rafael.  And thank you again.  Happy skiing.”  You hung up and slid your phone back in your pocket, and walked the final few blocks to his place.

You walked through his lobby, nodding at the doorman like you belonged there, then entered the elevator.  You already had your evening planned:  change into your pajamas, order in Thai food, and hunker down with the latest season of your baking show.  You vaguely remembered a tub in Barba’s bathroom, from the evening he had taken care of your drunken self.  You considered taking a bath too.  You’d have to check the bathroom for hidden cameras first though, you thought with a smile.

You slid the key into the lock and turned it, pushing your way into the apartment.  It was awash in a pinkish light from the sun setting through the floor-to-ceiling windows.  The sun was a red disc, sinking into the horizon, and it blinded you.  You shut the door behind you, squinting and unseeing, and threw the deadbolt.  You laid your bags on the floor in the entryway, hung up your coat and scarf, and knelt down to unlace you boots, straightening up to kick them off.  Your eyes adjusted to the light and you stepped into the apartment.  You smiled at the faint piney scent that filled the place.

You looked up and gave a small shriek.  Rafael was standing by the armchair in his living room, a nervous smile on his face. 

* * *

Barba hadn’t much hope that you and he would ever find firm footing with you again.  The interrupted moment with Yelina, the awkward interaction at the precinct…he figured it was over.

Then you’d turned up in the Bronx, unexpected.  If he felt that sometimes the two of you were on completely different schedules or agendas, he had to also admit that sometimes it felt like the universe was helping out too.  Not that he believed in that sort of cosmic intervention, but there was a certain pull between the two of you.  Something like gravity, almost.

At his abuelita’s apartment, he had immediately felt like you belonged there, joking and laughing with the two most important women in his life.  It felt so natural, like you had always been there, it was a barb in his heart.  He had to look away, focusing on unpacking groceries and then helping his mother with dinner.

When he had gone to the living room to announce that dinner was ready, he had stopped in the doorway, just watching you.  You and his grandmother were side by side, giggling like schoolgirls, your heads bent over the photo albums.  He hadn’t seen his abuelita laugh like that since her health started to fail.  He watched a shadow cross your face at his prom photo – you obviously recognized the girl in the picture as Yelina.  Then he watched you flip back to those humiliating bath photos, crowing in glee.

And then when he and his grandmother were bickering at dinner, you had cut right to the heart of the matter and offered an obvious compromise.  The Barba-Diaz family was too obstinate to see the best solution to his abuelita’s failing health, but you had pointed it out casually and with respect to both him and his grandma.  It made him wonder what other obvious solutions were right in front of him, hidden by his own mulish tendencies.

He drove you home that night, and Lucia had called him on the drive after he’s dropped you off.  The phone lines between his mother’s house and his grandmother’s had been buzzing all evening.  You had been a hit, apparently.  As soon as he was off the line with Lucia, he had texted you for coffee.  He did it immediately, before he had time to talk himself out of it.

Once he was settled into his own bed, he replayed the entire day over and over in his head, smiling at how lucky he was to have ran into you. 

He began to formulate a plan.

* * *

“Did you miss your plane?” you asked, confused.  You looked around the room, taking in the giant tree, laden with shiny baubles, elaborately wrapped presents underneath it.

Rafael made a disappointed sound, tsk-ing in the back of his throat.  “Detective, I just spoke with you five minutes ago.  How many cases have you cracked because of timelines?”  You looked at him, your face scrunched in puzzlement.  “How could I miss my plane at JFK and make it back here in minutes?”  You started to put it together.

“Time travel…” you said, slowly.  You looked at him with narrowed eyes.  “Or you lied to me.”

He looked nervous.  He swiped his palms along the sides of his legs, as if his hands were sweating.  He was in bare feet, wearing jeans and a green v-neck sweater that looked soft and brought out his eyes so that they shone like emeralds.  But his face was drawn tight with worry, the lines on his brow deep and his mouth a rictus of anxiety.  “I did,” he admitted.

You fell into interrogation mode and crossed your arms.  “Were you ever planning on going to Switzerland?”

“I had the trip booked,” he replied.  “But I canceled it.”

“When?”

“After you had dinner with my family in the Bronx that evening.”

You paused, then asked.  “So why did you ask me to stay here?”

He gave you a nervous half-smile.  “I wanted to surprise you.”

You returned his smile and uncrossed your arms, trying to allay some of his jitteriness.  “Well, you succeeded.”

He swiped his palms across his legs again, then took a few steps over to you.  He faltered and took a breath.  He took one of your hands and held it between his two paws.

“I wanted to spend the holidays with you,” he said.  You laughed lightly, ignoring your hammering heart, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Well, I’ve never had sex under a Christmas tree,” you joke, then winced.  “If that’s what you meant, I mean.  Not that you said that.  That _that’s_ what you wanted.”  Your felt your face starting to turn red and you bit down on the inside of your mouth to stop it from running away from you.  You looked at Barba, expecting his usual smirk, but it was absent from his face.  You dropped your head, focusing on your socks.

“You’re not just a hookup,” he said quietly.  You cringed, remembering the accusation you had flung at him when you were falling apart after the shooting.  “I understand why you think that, and I never tried to convince you otherwise.”  He squeezed his hands around yours and hung his head. 

“I’m sorry I said that,” you replied.  You pulled one of your hands out of his grasp so that you could lay it over his.  “I wish I could take that phone call back.  Rafael, I was so messed up.  I wasn’t eating or sleeping.  Every time I shut my eyes, I saw…what I saw.”  You finished lamely, not wanting to upset him.  You shifted your gaze down, focusing on the neckline of his sweater.  You could just make out the edge of his gold cross necklace, glinting in the last rays of the sunset that streamed through the windows.

He raised his head and looked at you, his green eyes shining with unshed tears.  “I want you to be able to talk about it, if you want.  And I want to tell you about my own problems.”  He removed one hand from where it was clasping yours and laid it gently along the side of your face.  He hooked his thumb under your chin and tilted your head until you were looking at him. 

“I wanted to spend Christmas with you because I want to be with you.  Not just hooking up.”  He smirked through his watery eyes and added, “Not that I’m advocating doing away with that part of it.”  His smirk disappeared, and he faltered before he continued.  “If you think that might be something you want too.”

You shifted your eyes across his face, studying him.  Your breath hitched in your throat and your legs felt weak.  You wanted to reach out a hand…

“I’ve never really dated anyone,” you reminded him. 

“I’ve dated about five women who broke my heart,” he chided you.  “And one that tried to choke me out with her forearm during sex.  Nonconsensual choking, by the way.”  You started to smile, as he continued.  “We could figure it out together,” he whispered nervously.  You could feel the tremor in the hand that he still had cupped on your face. 

You nodded, unable to speak.  Your throat felt tight with emotion.  “Rafael,” you choked out.  “I missed you so much…” He didn’t let you finish.  He pulled you into his embrace, wrapping his arms around you so tight you could hardly breathe.  He kissed you on your temple, burying his nose in your hair and taking a deep breath.  He stiffened around you, then pushed you away, his hands on your shoulders holding you at arms’ length.  He grinned at you, his face relaxed for the first time since you had walked through the door of his apartment.

He cocked his head to the side.  “Why do you smell like disinfectant?” he asked.

* * *

You laughed, blushing a bit.  “Carisi took opportunity of the slow day to disinfect the precinct,” you said.  “I’d planned on showering when I got here.”  You reached up, tentative, and placed your hands on his biceps, gripping him lightly.  “Obviously, plans changed when you jumped out of the shadows at me.”

He pulled you back into his arms, holding you tight and waiting for his racing heart to calm.  Even your hands, barely perceptible on his arms, was enough to make him want to toss you over his shoulder and carry you into his bedroom.  It had been so long since he’d gotten to touch you.  He’d never made love to you in his apartment; he thought back to the night he brought you home after the Max Lucas trial ended – the night he had slept on the couch while you slept off a substantial amount of rum in his bed. 

That night had been so unexpected.  The detective that he half-heartedly thought about, torn between an attraction to you and the certainty that you didn’t feel the same way.  The girl-genius who held it together even during the toughest trials, knowing exactly what evidence he needed to win cases, supporting him in the courtroom.  The young woman who always treated him with respect first, and gentle teasing second.  The spark that gave his dreary life a bit of shine.  That night, all of that and more – the sassy and adorable drunk, the tearful pursuer of justice – all of it perched on the edge of his bed, swimming in his loungewear, eyes latched on his, wide and trusting. 

How many times did he replay that scene in his head, imagining all the ways it could have gone differently?  How many times did he imagine the endless variety, like it was playing out across alternate universes?  The time he crawled into bed beside you, spooning you until you fell asleep.  The time he crawled into bed beside you, nestling your head on his chest and soothing you as you cried about the trial.  How he stroked your hair and rubbed you back and pressed reassuring kisses across your face and temples and forehead, endless times. 

The time he imagined that he crawled into bed and you convinced him that you were quite sober after all, that you had a metabolism that burned up alcohol like a star burning up hydrogen and that you were consenting – no, _begging_ \- for him to claim you then and there.  They all played out in his mind until they bled together and he could barely remember what had actually happened.

And now, after months in hell, worrying about you and wishing he could help and wanting nothing more than to just see you one last time, just press his lips to you one last time – you were here.  In his arms.  Reeking of chemical lemons.  He grinned against your head.  Yes, he wanted nothing more than to drag you into his room and act out every fantasy he’d had, make them real.  But when he had surprised you, your first thought had been about sex under the Christmas tree, and he knew he needed to make you understand that you were more than a hookup. 

“No need to change your plans,” he finally said.  “Go shower.  Change into something comfortable.  I can order dinner.”

You moved your hands to his chest, pushing yourself away gently.  “Are you sure?”  You looked confused. 

He took your hands and drew them to his face.  He kissed each of your palms gently, then laid one across his face so that it was cupping his cheek.  “I’m sure.  We have plenty of time.”  He smiled at you softly.  “Besides, I owe you a dinner, I believe.”

 

You came out of the bathroom just as the food was being delivered.  He drank in the sight of you:  comfortable-looking faded jeans, a button down flannel shirt, bare feet that crept across his floor.  You had something of a dancer’s carriage, walking softly.  Your hair was wavy and damp, curling tendrils falling across your forehead that you tucked behind your ear absent-mindedly.  You looked like a meal he wanted to devour.

You felt him watching you and looked up into his eyes.  Whatever you saw there made you blush; Barba knew that you were getting better at reading his expressions, and his desire for you was probably written across his face.

Instead, he doled out the food:  pad Thai, drunken noodles (“In honor of the last time you were here,” he joked, and you had punched in the arm playfully, and it had only stung for a minute), papaya salad.  For dessert, mango sticky rice.  White wine to drink, sweet and tart.  You ate at the dining room table, Barba at the head and you in the seat beside him.  Every so often, he’d reach out and place his foot over yours, reminding himself that you were really there with him.  You smiled every time he did, ducking your head and concentrating on your plate. 

After you were done eating, you both cleaned up, then refilled your wine glasses.  “What now?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head.  “What do you want to do?”

You blushed.  “Can I be honest?”  He nodded, and you continued.  “I’d like to do whatever you usually do on Christmas Eve.”

He felt that pang in his chest.  He knew why you were requesting it, and he’d planned for it.  He took your hand, the one not clutching your glass of wine, and led you into the living room.  He steered you towards the couch and sat you down.  He could feel you watching him as he lit a fire in the gas fireplace and turned off the overhead lights.  When he plugged in the Christmas tree lights, he didn’t miss the little gasp you gave at the sight of the towering pine, covered in sparkling lights.  He came over and sat beside you, leaning against the back of the couch.  He took your free hand again, grasping it gently.

“When I was a kid, we spent Christmas Eve at midnight mass.  It was about two hours long, just a lot of singing and reading and people shuffling in line for communion,” he explained.  “I almost always fell asleep.  Then we’d go home, and I’d be too keyed up to sleep.”  He glanced at you with a smile.  “Santa and all that.”

He sighed and continued.  “When I got older, I started going to Gstaad.  My mother and grandmother spends the day with family – my aunt and their family.  Lots of cousins and second cousins and kids running around.  I would just sit in the corner, lonely.”  He paused for a moment.  “It was easier being lonely in a Swiss lodge in the Alps.”

You sat your wine on the coffee table and reached out to run your hand through his hair, soothing him.  He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch.  He felt the years of loneliness melting away as you stroked his hair, running your fingernails lightly over his scalp.  The tightness in his chest loosened a fraction.  He kept his eyes closed as he continued.  “I was hoping maybe to start a new tradition.”

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“This right here,” he said.  He opened his eyes and turned to look at you, searching your Y/E/C eyes with his green ones.  “A fire burning, a decorated tree.  Me and you, together.  Just like this.”   

You smiled at him.  “That sounds pretty perfect.”

He placed his wine down beside yours, then stood up with a grin.  “There is one Barba tradition that can carry over though.”  He held out his hands and you took them.  He pulled you up to a standing position and walked you over to the tree.  “When I was a kid, when we got home after mass, I was always allowed to open one gift that was under the tree.  Santa hadn’t come yet, but presents from my relatives were placed under the tree, and I got to pick one.”  His grin widened.  “I was a terrible picker.  I usually ended up opening socks.”

You laughed at him, but didn’t respond.  There was a moment of silence between the two of you, then Barba broke it.

“So go ahead,” he said.

You looked confused.  “Go ahead what?”

“Pick a present to open.” 

You furrowed your brow.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

He sighed good-naturedly.  “There are presents under the tree, Y/F/N.  Pick one to open.”

He could see the wheels in your head turning and not finding any purchase.  You shook your head.  “Aren’t they just for decoration?”

 “Why would you think that?” he asked with a laugh.

“Well,” you started, shifting uncomfortably on your bare feet.  “I thought the cleaning service put them there when they set up the tree…. for decoration.”

He laughed again, gentler this time, and pulled you into another tight hug.  “I don’t have a cleaning service, Y/F/N.  I am barely here enough to make the place dirty.”  He placed a kiss on your forehead, then released you.  He watched the emotions ripple across your face.

More confusion, at first.  He smiled to think that he’d flummoxed the girl-genius detective who never let anything get past her, but then the smile slipped because he knew why you weren’t getting it.  Over the past three weeks, he’d read testimonial after testimonial from former foster children.  He knew that the holidays could be tough for them, especially the ones that aged out the system.  Because they had no family to spend the day with.  Because it brought up memories of Santa delivering presents to every other kid in the world except for them.  Of course you didn’t get it.

After the confusion, he watched the realization dawn on your face.  It was like watching the sunrise – a gradual understanding that made you light up like the sun.  “You got this tree yourself?” you asked, in awe. 

“And I decorated it myself too,” he added.  He nudged you gently.  “I’m not just a killer ADA, you know.  I have other talents.  Like the ability to wrap a tree in string lights.”

“And you…” you wavered, not wanting to say it aloud.  “…you did this for me?”

“Obviously,” he whispered.  “It’s all for you.”

You dropped your head suddenly, and he heard you take a few deep, gasping breaths.  He placed his hands on either side of your overheated face and tilted your head up.  Your face was red, and your eyes were glimmering with great big tears that rolled down your face.  He wiped them away as they fell and as you struggled not to outright sob.  He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of your trembling mouth, then whispered, “pick a gift to unwrap.”

You shook your head.  “Which one is mine?”

He dropped his head in mock disappointment.  “I already told you, it’s all for you.  All the presents.  They’re all yours.”  He went to add more, but you tackled him in a hug, throwing him off balance.  He steadied both of you.  You had your arms around him, slid under his arms, and you pressed your face into his chest as you sobbed.  He rubbed your back, holding you like he’d never let you go and felt himself tear up too.  The two of you stayed like that for a long while, you crying out a lifetime of loneliness, and Barba shedding a silent tear or two for his own life of solitude.  With just a bit of luck, maybe you would both never be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Gentle readers, your writer does not live in NYC, and when she visits, she stays above ground because she is mortally afraid of the community of social outcasts that live there, who are led by the wise man-beast Vincent. As such, she has no understanding of the NYC subway system. She is basing the subway breakdowns on her own experience with Boston’s MBTA, because she has sat in dead cars in the tunnel (Red Line, represent). And yes, she has also disembarked early, running into work late as a sweaty mess. Write what you know.


	14. Chapter 14

Barba held you for what seemed like an eternity.  Not that you were complaining.  You’d missed him so much.  Then the dinner in the Bronx happened, and then the gradual thaw into a tentative, halting friendship.  And now this surprise for the holidays.  Every time you contemplated how elaborate the planning had been – it set you crying all over again.

 

His arms were strong around you, holding you steady.  Your own arms were around him, and in touching him, you realized how much weight he had lost.  He had always been solid, but now you could feel his ribs as you held him tight.  You pressed your wet face into his chest, and with each shaky breath you drew in, you smelled his scent:  his expensive cologne that was a blend of spicy and woodsy, the faint wool smell of his sweater, and something undefinable that was just _him_.

 

Finally, you started to compose yourself.  The tears abated, and you sniffled against him.

 

“I think I’m done,” you muttered against him.  “But I think your sweater is probably soaked now.”

 

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest.  “If you want me shirtless, Detective, you just have to say so.”

 

You sniffed again, then drew away from him reluctantly.  You gave a shaky laugh, swiping at your eyes with your hands, clearing away the tears that lingered.

 

“Sorry about that,” you said, laughing again ruefully.  “I guess I wasn’t doing enough crying in therapy.”

 

He reached up with a hand and brushed a stray tear away with the back of his hand.  “I’ve told you numerous times not to apologize to me.”  He turned and lowered himself to the floor by the tree, crossing his legs.  He patted the space beside him, and you sat down too.  You gazed at the gifts under the tree and sighed.

 

He frowned.  “Is it too much?”

 

“It’s just…. I only got you one gift,” you explained, “and I just figured I’d leave it on your table before you got back from your vacation.”  You paused, pointing at the elaborately wrapped gift closest to you.  “And it doesn’t have a ribbon on it,” you added.  “I could never get ribbons to do that curling thing that people do.”

 

He looked at you with an unreadable expression.  “You got me a gift?”

 

“Sure,” you replied.  You hesitated, considering your next words.  “I bought it a while ago, and it’s just been sitting in my closet, waiting for Christmas.”  You looked at him – his green eyes looked like they were about to cry, and you knew you wouldn’t survive another bout of tears yourself.  You wondered why he was getting emotional.  Hadn’t any of those five other girlfriends – six, if you counted the nonconsensual choker – gotten him a gift?  Had he always been single over the holidays?  What did they look like?  Why had they broken up?  And how could you get their names and last known addresses?

 

But Barba was tearing up, and you didn’t have any tears left in you, so you head him off by joking, “it’s a nice tie, Counselor.”  You shook your head in playful regret.  “You really need to start taking this whole ADA thing seriously and start dressing the part.  No more rolling into work in some off-the-rack, wrinkled poly-blend suit with stained ties and scuffed shoes…”  He gave a watery laugh, then cleared his throat.  He gestured to the gifts under the tree.

 

“Pick one, Y/F/N.”

 

You adjusted yourself so that you were cross-legged, then studied the pile of presents.  You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t rush.  You weren’t going to blow your Christmas Eve gift on socks.  You considered each one, judging the size and shape along with working theories about what Barba may have bought you. 

 

Finally, he made an impatient noise beside you.  “Are you rebooting?” he asked.

 

“Hush,” you murmured.  “Children and Youth hosted a holiday party every year for the foster kids in the county.”  You turned to look at him, explaining.  You weren’t sad, just matter-of-fact.  “Anyway, you got to choose one gift that was under the tree, but you had to be savvy.”  You turned back to look at the presents under the tree.  “You can’t just pick the biggest or the one with the shiniest paper.  That way lies disappointment.”

 

“You think I put some disappointing gifts in there?” he huffed.  You glanced back at him and saw his smile, so you smiled back at him.

 

“Maybe,” you replied. 

 

“Maybe,” he agreed.  “A good way to find out is to just sit there and stare at them.”

 

You clucked your tongue at him.  “That, my friend, is why you unwrapped tube socks on Christmas Eve as a child.  No patience.”

 

“No,” he agreed with you again.  He shifted his weight and reached past you, grabbing a box nestled near the back.  “Open this one.”  He placed it gently in your lap then grinned at you.

 

You frowned.  “I thought I was getting an authentic Barba family tradition here,” you said, picking up the box, testing the weight of it.

 

“Well, it’s evolved into a Barba-Y/L/N family tradition,” he said.  Your stomach flipped at his nonchalance at pairing up your surnames and calling you family, but he didn’t seem to notice what he’d said.  “It involves me watching you stare at wrapped presents.”

 

“Smart ass,” you muttered.  You ran a fingernail under the tape on the edge, then worked at the other pieces of tape, one by one.

 

“Oh my god,” he groaned, and you glanced over to see him dragging his hands over his face.  “If you take this long with all of them, I can repurpose them for next year.”

 

You pulled the paper away, revealing a new star night-light.  You turned the box to read the details on the back, but Barba reached past you, snatching it out of your hands and opening it.  He slid the light out of the box and then pulled out an envelope from the box as well.

 

“This is like a planetarium show in your bedroom,” he explained, excitedly.  He held up the envelope and continued.  “These are different slides that you put in the light, and they project real night skies in your room.”  You smiled at his enthusiasm, watching as he read the list of slides on the envelope.  “You have the northern hemisphere in each of the four seasons.  Same for the southern hemisphere.  There’s some of the Milky Way and some deep space shots.”

 

“But no Smirking Lawyer constellation?” you asked with a smile.

 

“Well, no,” he admitted.  “But he’s right here.  He hasn’t been set in the sky yet.”  He turned back to the light.  “The guy at the planetarium said it had all the best views of space…”  


“You went to the Hayden for this?” you interrupted.

 

“The gift shop,” he corrected, then continued, “…and the guy said you can order more slides online if there’s certain ones you want to see.  I wasn’t sure which ones you liked so I just stuck with the ones that came with the light.”  He looked at you, hesitating at the expression on your face.  “Do you like it?” he asked, tentative.

 

You smiled wider and uncrossed your legs, surging up until you were kneeling beside him.  “I love it,” you said.  You pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth.  He pressed back against you for a moment, returning the kiss, but kept his mouth closed.  He pulled away reluctantly and then smiled.  He stood up and helped you stand too, and he gathered up the light and slides in his hands.

 

“It’s another Barba family tradition that you get to play with your Christmas Eve gift for a bit before bed,” he said.  He took a step behind you and then nudged you playfully in the direction of his bedroom.  “But I usually opened lame gifts, like socks or a sweater, so it wasn’t a fun tradition for me.”

 

You snorted, picturing a young Rafael sitting in his abuela’s apartment, pouting in a new pair of tube socks, his face screwed up in that grumpy scowl that had carried over into adulthood.  Your delight faded though when he leaned in behind you, whispering in your ear, “so I’m going to make up for lost time and enjoy that tradition now.”

 

* * *

 

Once he steered you into the bedroom, he ordered you to sit on the edge of his bed and keep your eyes shut.  You were compliant, but you fidgeting while he sat up the light.  Your hands twisted in your lap, sometimes tapping out little rhythms he couldn’t discern, sometimes balling into fists.  He sat the light on his nightstand and shook the slides out of their envelope.

 

“Which slide do you want?” he asked.  He watched your eyebrows knit together in concentration, but your eyes stayed shut.

 

“The winter sky from the northern hemisphere,” you finally answered. 

 

He flipped through the slides until he found it, then he loaded it into the light.  “Why this one?”

 

“Because it’s the sky that we are under right now,” you replied simply.

 

He smiled.  “Keep your eyes shut,” he warned.  “Until I say you can open them.”  He turned the light on, adjusting it until the stars were on the ceiling just so.  Then he went and turned off the ceiling light.  He waited for his eyes to adjust and then surveyed the scene.

 

The light was better than he had hoped, and it _was_ just like the gift shop salesman had said:  a planetarium in his bedroom.  And there you were, perched on the edge of his bed, almost like that first drunken night.  You weren’t wearing his oversized clothes, and your eyes weren’t blearily fastened on his, but your face looked completely trustful, your lips curved into a slight smile.  He felt the same lurch of anticipation in his stomach that he felt that night. 

 

“Open your eyes, Y/F/N,” he ordered you softly.

 

Your Y/E/C eyes fluttered open, looking at him first.  He wondered what you were thinking: sometimes you were an open book and other times, you were able to shield yourself from him.  Right now, you were holding back.

 

Then your gaze shifted to the ceiling, and you gasped in wonderment.  He watched your mouth fall open as you swiveled yourself onto the bed, taking it all in, your eyes shining.  He came to sit on the edge that you had just occupied, his pulse pounding in his temples.  And in other places too.

 

“It’s beautiful,” you said.  You leaned back on your elbows, and he sat above you, watching you trace out the constellations.  You pointed at one.  “That one’s Orion,” you informed him.

 

“I know the basic ones,” he said, rolling his eyes with a huff.  “Orion, the Big Dipper…. we took school trips to the planetarium all the time.”

 

You smiled at him.  “Calm down, Jerome Avenue,” you teased.  “You said you didn’t know what my favorite night sky was, and I’m telling you.  It’s Orion.  There’s a red star there,” you pointed, “and a blue supergiant there that is either going to go supernova or fade into a white dwarf.”  You glanced up at him, then pointed again.  “And somewhere in there is the Orion nebula.  It’s the closest stellar nursery to Earth.  Just massive amounts of energy and gas, birthing stars.”

 

He smiled at your lecture, shaking his head slightly.  He swung himself onto the bed, and you moved over to make room for him to lie beside you.  The two of you lay like that, side by side, just watching his ceiling.  He crept his hand a few inches over, until it was barely touching yours.  You reached out and took it, holding it lightly in your own.

 

“You should run the shows at the Hayden,” he joked.  “I would have paid more attention on school trips if someone like you had been in charge.”

 

“You didn’t pay attention?” you asked.

 

“Nope.  I was usually too busy trying to flirt with girls.  Hold their hands, stuff like that.  Not that I was very successful.”

 

You snorted.  “I’d think sitting in the dark would be a good chance to hit on a lady,” you teased.  “Because they wouldn’t be able to see your atrocious hair.”

 

He pulled his hand away from yours and turned onto his side so that he was facing you.  “What is wrong with my hair?” he growled, and he watched your face blush in the faint light.  You shrugged.

 

“It’s fine now,” you told him.  “You just had some interesting style choices as a teen.” 

 

He rose up over you slowly until he was leaning against you, half pressed on you.  He felt your breath hitch and saw the flush creep up from under the collar of your shirt.  You paused a moment, biting your lip, then added, “did you buy your hair gel in bulk, to save money?”

 

He pressed himself against you more fully, bracing himself on one arm and reaching the other around you to trail down your arm, his fingertips barely touching the soft flannel of your shirt.  “Watch yourself, detective,” he warned you. 

 

You shifted your eyes to his and smirked.  “ _You_ watch yourself, counselor.  Remember, I have evidence.  A certain stubborn abuela turned state’s witness and showed me all sorts of incriminating photos.”

 

“Do you have these photos in custody?” he murmured, leaning nearer to you.  “I don’t think you do, and no one would believe you otherwise.”

 

“Maybe when your grandmother’s back was turned I took out my phone,” you speculated.  You placed your hand on his chest calmly.

 

“Chain of custody issue,” he tsk-ed, shaking his head in disappointment.  “Really, detective – this case is flimsy at best.  Have you ever done this before?  I’d expect this level of shoddy work from Carisi, but you…”

 

You cut him off by grasping his sweater in your hand and pulling him against you.  He caught himself before you bumped heads, then swept down and seized you mouth with his.  He tried to pace himself, restrain himself to slow, lingering kisses, but you surged up against him.  You reached up and laid a hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head firmly to yours, holding him there.  He bit back a groan as you ran the tip of your tongue over his lower lip, then nipped it with your teeth.  Then you prodding the seam of his lips, and he opened his mouth to you.

 

You tasted like the sweet wine, and beneath it, the mango and honey from the dessert you had shared.  He groaned audibly this time, as you wound your fingers through his hair and trailed your other hand to the bottom of his sweater.  You fumbled at him as you claimed his mouth, sliding your tongue into him.  He felt you tugging at his undershirt, pulling it free from where it was tucked into his jeans, then he felt your hand slip underneath.  He broke the kiss with a gasp as you ran you hand up his bare chest, tugging at his chest hair.  He placed his free arm alongside your head, running his hand over your forehead.  You felt almost feverish, like you might combust.  He took a steadying breath, trying to calm his own passion.

 

“Y/F/N,” he murmured, his voice shaky.  Your hand spasmed on his pectoral, right over his heart, digging in your fingernails almost to the point of pain, and he paused a moment to compose himself.  He placed a line of feather-light kisses across your face – starting on your lips, traveling across your cheek, and then finishing below your ear.  “I want to go slow with you.  But I’ve missed you so much.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve missed you too,” you said softly.  You moved both of your hands to the outside of his chest, pushing him gently off of you.  He rolled to his side, and you rose up.  You pushed him onto his back and then swung your leg over him so that you were on him and straddling him.  He placed his hands on your thighs, lightly gripping you through your jeans.  You looked down at him from your vantage point above him.

 

His hair was messy from you running your fingers through it, and his eyes were dark with desire.  His trademark smirk was missing, and his mouth was open slightly, panting with the effort of holding himself back.  You could feel him underneath you, already hard, and you smiled.  He couldn’t hold that part of himself back. 

 

Without saying a word, you reached down and grabbed the hem of both his sweater and his undershirt, pushing them up his torso.  He raised himself off and helped you remove both, pulling them over his arms.  You tossed them onto the floor and pushed him back against the bed, and his emerald eyes burned into yours.  He reached out for your shirt and fiddled with one of the buttons with his shapely fingers.  You took the hint and unbuttoned the flannel, tossing it on the floor too. 

 

He laid his warm hands on your hips, then ran them up your waist and the sides of your rib cage, tickling you lightly until you squirmed on top of him.  The sudden friction made him groan, and he cupped your lace-clad breasts carefully, barely touching you.  You surged against his hands, grinding yourself onto his erection and pulling another groan from him.

 

Then you leaned down, laying your upper half against him, kissing him again.  You pressed your tongue against the entrance of his mouth, and he parted his lips eagerly to you.  You kissed him deeply, slipping your tongue into his mouth until you could taste the honey and wine from dinner, and until you could taste him – whatever made him distinctively him.  It sent a jolt to your heart and one to your core too.

 

You released his mouth and moved to kiss across his face, like he always did to you.  You kissed his forehead, imaging that you were melting all of the stress and tension.  You kissed his eyelids, slightly swollen from his own tears, and you kissed across his cheeks and nose.  You worked your way across and under his jaw, alternating between light kisses and wet, open-mouthed ones.  You kissed on ear, pulling his lobe into your mouth and sucking on it gently, eliciting a deep groan from him.  You smiled and went to the other ear, breathing heavily into it, taking a moment to catch your own breath.  Then you whispered at him.

 

“If you say stop, I’ll stop,” you half-teased.  But you were half-serious too.  You weren’t quite sure what he exactly liked in bed, since he had always put your own pleasure first. 

 

“Don’t ever stop,” he growled, and he tried to raise up to flip you onto your back but you locked your legs tight around him and held him down.

 

“Just give me a little time,” you begged, grinding slowly against him as you pressed your mouth to his neck.  His pulse juddered against your mouth, and you sucked against it, reveling in how it felt, throbbing in time to his heartbeat, against your lips.  You nipped him, gentle enough to not leave a mark.  “I want to show you how much I missed you.”

 

He reached one hand around to your hip, guiding you as you ground against him.  Then he reached up and tangled his hand in your hair, pressing your head against his neck.  “Take all the time you need,” he said in a strangled voice.  You smiled against him, then laid a trail of wet kisses from his neck down to his throat, then down and across his chest.  You laid your hands on his biceps, feeling the muscles rippling beneath your palms as you kissed your way down his torso, stopping only to kiss his nipples before pulling them into your mouth and nipping them firmly between your teeth.

 

“Jesus,” he groaned, his hands spasming on your hip and in your hair.  You smiled again, then worked your way across his belly, placing your mouth of every square inch of him as he squirmed underneath you and tried to control his hands. 

 

When you reached the waistband of his jeans, you sat back up, grinding your core directly over his erection, enjoying the sensation as desire pooled low in your belly.  You slid your hands down his biceps and over his forearms, grasping his hands for a moment before releasing them.  You reached down for the button on his jeans, and his gasped as your fingertips brushed against his bare skin. 

 

You unbuttoned him, and he helped you as you worked his jeans and boxer briefs off of him.  His erection sprang free.  You rid him of the rest of his clothing, and you reached for him, grasping him in your hand and relishing the sheer size of him.  The sight of your hand – your slim fingers – wrapped around his manhood made your mouth go dry with lust, and you had to pause a moment to regain your composure.

 

You took the opportunity to crawl off of him and stand at the foot of the bed, removing the rest of your clothing.  You could feel Barba’s eyes on you the whole time; they were practically smoldering, making your feel hot and flushed all over.  Then you crawled back onto the bed and continued where you left off.

 

You pressed a kiss to the strip of skin just below where his waistband was, but he tangled his big hands in your hair and tugged you up towards him, stopping you.  You growled in frustration but allowed him to pull you to him until you lay flush on him.

 

“Have you done that before?” he panted.

 

You wiggled against him, making him groan, but answered, “No.”  You kissed him, licking against his mouth, and then whispered in his ear, “but I want to.  I want to taste you, Rafael.”

 

He gave a tortured groan underneath you, then answered in a hoarse whisper.  “I won’t last,” he warned.  “And I want to be in you.”  He thrust up against you, and you felt his heavy weight nudge against your inner thigh.  “Please, Y/F/N.”

 

You worked your way up to sitting on him again, your legs on either side of his hips and your wet heat pressed against him.  He started to moan, and he reached his hands up to cover your breasts.  He ran his thumbs over your erect nipples, pinching them slightly.  This sent a spike of desire straight to your core, and you ground against him harder.

 

“Cariño,” he warned.  “I said I’m not going to last.  Please.”

 

You looked down into his eyes, steady and not looking away.  His face was tight with concentration, and the smolder in his eyes had been replaced by sheer pleading.  You nodded and asked if he had protection.  He removed one shaky hand from your breast to point to the bedside table, and you leaned over to open the drawer.  You opened the box and pulled one out, then opened the foil package.  He reached for it, but you held it away from him and moved to roll it onto him.

 

“You know what you’re doing there, detective?” he joked, his voice weak.

 

You nodded.  “I did this to a banana once a million years ago,” you replied.  You grasped his erection, running your fingers lightly along it, before you rolled the condom onto him.

 

“Lucky banana,” he choked out.  He reached out and put his hands on your hips as you made your way back up to straddling him.  You lowered your head down to kiss him gently.

 

“Is this okay?” you whispered.  You were practically aching to feel him inside you again, but you wanted to go slowly.  You kissed him again.

 

He reached up and placed his hand on the back of your neck, deepening the kiss.  He plunged his tongue into your mouth, making you moan into him.  Finally, you broke the kiss, breathless.  He stared at you, his brows furrowed.

 

“It’s okay,” he responded in a low growl.  “Just stop if I say so.”

 

You snorted at him.  “I’ll be gentle.” 

 

You rose up a bit and reached down to line him up with your entrance.  His breath hitched at the contact, and he pressed his hips upward a bit, until the tip of him was in you, holding you open with the crown of his cock.

 

You considered reprimanding him for being overeager, but you were ravening for him.  You slid yourself onto him, relishing the sob that tore from his throat as you did, savoring the feel of him stretching you and feeling you, the delicious sting of his massive erection pushing in.  You stopped part way with a moan, panting and adjusting yourself before sinking the rest of the way.

 

“Oh, god,” you whimpered, settling onto him.  You dropped your head, your hands gripping his pectoral muscles in erratic spasming as you adjusted to him.  He reached up and stroked your face, gentle, and you could feel concern and worry radiating off of him.  You knew he didn’t want to hurt you.  You didn’t know if you would ever be able to explain that it was a good hurt, the best kind – the feeling of being just on the pleasurable side of pain.  The feeling of being possessed.  The feeling of being joined to him, and never wanting to be parted.

 

Once you were able to steady yourself, you sank the final part of you onto him, the last part you’d been holding back.  His hand on your face slid to your neck, and he pulled you roughly down to him so that he could claim you mouth too.  The change in angle caused your clit to grind against his groin, and you moaned into his mouth.  He surged up into you, driving himself as best he could given the angle. 

 

You broke the kiss and sat back on him and set to riding him.  You only rose up and inch or so before sinking back onto him, grinding against him before repeating the rhythm.  He held your hips and matched your pace so that he was thrusting up as you lowered down.  The only sounds were your labored breathing and moans and muttered Spanish curses from Barba.  You couldn’t make out what he was saying; the blood was roaring in your ears, and you felt your desire tightening in your belly, low.  Your breathing became erratic, and you felt Barba’s hips stuttering as he reached his own conclusion.

 

“Cariño, I’m close,” he said, his voice husky.  “Please…cum with me.”  He reached down to where you were joined together, placing his thumb against your clit and circling it unevenly.

 

You reached back behind yourself, grabbing one of his thighs as you drove down onto him.  He thrust up once, hard, heaving into you and came with a shout.  He pressed his thumb against your clit hard.  That, combined with his thrusts as he drove through his orgasm, set off your own.

 

Your mind went wonderfully, magically blank as you came – your entire existence focused on him, driving into you, and your core, gripping him.  You saw the now-familiar sparks in your vision, and you trembled as the pleasure rolled through you.  You whimpered on top of him, then collapsed on top of him, your chest heaving with the effort.  He panted underneath you, giving one last, involuntary thrust, before he let out a giant sigh.  He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as you recovered.

 

Once you recovered, you eased yourself off of him and lay down beside him.  He pulled you into a hug, kissing your forehead, then went off to the bathroom to clean up.  When he returned, he helped you turn down the bed and settle between the covers.  Then he joined you, pulled you against him until you were nestled against him:  your head on his chest, under his chin, his arm around your upper back.  You pressed your ear to him, listening to the steady thudding of his heart. 

 

He sighed contentedly above you, and you started to nod off, exhausted.  You felt as if you’d run a marathon.  The weight of the past few months that had been pressing on you melted away, and you felt practically boneless as you relaxed against Rafael’s warm, solid presence.  You turned your face into his chest, smelling his inimitable scent, then kissed him near the hollow of his throat before saying, “thank you.” 

 

He snorted against you.  “For what, bedding you well?”

 

“That,” you agreed.  And then you added, more seriously, “and for everything.  For surprising me.  For planning all of this.  For being here.”

 

He kissed the top of your head.  “Thank _you_ for being here.”  You felt him draw in a shaky breath and then sniff, so you worked you way up to look at him.  His green eyes were teary with emotion.  You kissed him gently, cupping his face with your hand, stroking his cheek.  He drew another shuddering breath.  You shushed him, leaning your forehead against his head before you kissed him again.

 

“I know,” you told him, because you did.  “But no more tears.”

 

“Y/F/N,” he whispered.  His eyes were brilliant green, and he stared at you so intensely that your stomach churned.  He rubbed his hand in comforting circles on your back.  “Y/F/N, te amo.”

 

You felt your own eyes tear up, but you remembered your own admonishment, so you just leaned down and gave him another kiss, this one full of feeling, before you pulled away.  “I love you too, Rafael.”


	15. Chapter 15

Barba woke early on Christmas morning, right at dawn.  A bluish light crept into the bedroom, and when he looked through the blinds, it appeared to be snowing.  He smiled – he couldn’t have planned it better himself. 

 

He looked over at your sleeping form.  You were curled on one side, your hair a mass of tangles around your head against the pillow.  You had one hand tucked under the pillow, and the other holding him around his wrist lightly.  Your eyelids looked a little puffy from all the crying, and your lips were swollen from all the other activities, but you looked peaceful.  Your breathing was deep and even – a far cry from the last time he watched you sleep at the hospital after the shooting.  He felt his chest tighten with remembered fear, recalling the terror that had washed over him when he had waited in terrible anticipation outside the school with Liv and Amaro.  He remembered how helpless he felt.  He vowed to himself to always keep you safe, no matter what it took.  No matter the price.

 

He wanted to lean over and place kisses all over you – your face, your neck and shoulders.  He considered different ways to wake you up, but he decided to let you sleep.  He drew the comforter up around your shoulder more securely, then slipped out of bed.  He pulled a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on, then made his way into the apartment.

 

He straightened up a bit – cleaned the discarded wrapping paper from the night before, the half-empty wine glasses.  He turned the tree lights on.  Outside, big snowflakes danced in the eddies that streamed between the buildings.  He lit another fire, then turned towards the kitchen to make some coffee.

 

The carafe was just starting to brew, the apartment filling with the aroma of dark roast.  He heard a thump from the bedroom and smiled.  He had figured that the smell of coffee would wake you up.  If it had pulled you from the daiquiri-coma you’d been in that first night, it would draw you out now.

 

Sure enough, a moment later you were in the doorway, looking around the apartment with blinking eyes.  He watched you take in the tree, the fire, the snow outside, and he watched your face light up with glee.  Then he saw you notice him, and your face lit up even more.  It made his heart swell, that maybe the sight of him made you happy.

 

“Morning,” you said, your voice still groggy with sleep.  “Merry Christmas.”  You made your way over to him and wrapped your arms around his midsection, laying your head against his chest.  He hugged you back and dropped a kiss on your head.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he replied.  “And guess what?  Santa came last night.”

 

 “He’s not the only one,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest.  He barked with surprised laughter, then pushed you away, holding you at arm’s length.  He placed one hand over his heart in mock horror. 

 

“That’s terrible,” he bemoaned.  “What would my sainted abuela think to hear you talk like that, corrupting her innocent grandson?”

 

You rocked up onto your toes and placed an innocent kiss on his cheek.  “I’d say that she’s the one that showed me naked pictures of you,” you replied.  He glowered at you and you took a step away from him.  “Two pages full of naked baby Barba,” you teased, and took another dancing step away from him as he lunged at you.  “Just a fat little baby in the bath, splashing away…”  You trailed off with a shriek as he caught you around the waist, his front pressed to your back.  Your hair swung around, and he reached up with one hand and brushed it away from the back of your neck.  He pressed his mouth against the bottom of your hairline, right above the knobs of your spine, in an obscenely loud, smacking kiss.  You shrieked again, and he dug his fingers into your side, making you squirm against him as you squealed. 

 

“Are you done?” he asked, breathless as he held you around the waist and you struggled against him.  He knew that you could break his hold if you really wanted – you’d been training scores of women in the Bronx to do just that – but he gave you a tight squeeze anyway as you laughed helplessly against his ticklish fingers.

 

“I’m done,” you replied, out of breath yourself.  He stilled his hand but kept his hold on you, both of you panting.

 

“Good,” he finally said.  He released you and swatted at your ass, but you dodged him handily.  “Because Santa doesn’t take kindly to women who tease him without mercy.”  He fake-lunged at you again, making you giggle, then turned to lead you into the kitchen.

 

“Come get some coffee,” he said.  “Then we can open the rest of your gifts.”

 

You were both settled on the floor, by the tree, your coffee mugs set carefully on the floor.  Barba looked at his bare wrist, miming like he was checking the time. 

 

“We don’t have all week for you to choose and then unwrap these,” he said.  “So I’ll just hand them to you in order and you will tear the paper off.”  He pointed at you sternly.  “I said ‘tear,’ Y/F/N.  Not ‘ease it off like you’re seducing it with torturous foreplay.’”

 

You laughed, but then realization dawned over your face.  “You don’t like that?” you asked.

 

He reached over and selected a gift.  “I like it.  A lot.  But the gifts don’t like to be teased.”  He placed the present in your hands.  “Go ahead.”

 

You slid your fingernail under the flap of tape, Barba groaned (“I need to get it started,” you chided him), and then you unwrapped it.  It was a cookbook, thick as a law textbook.  You read the title and saw that it was authored by the judge of your beloved baking show.  You laughed, and he smiled. 

 

“This gift was really more for me.  Since we’re a _thing_ now,” he said with a smirk, “it’s New York City law that you bake for me.”

 

“That so?”  You thumbed through the pages, looking at the glossy photos of desserts.  “I don’t recall ever enforcing that law.”

 

“It’s in the administrative code, I believe.”  He shrugged. 

 

You chuckled.  “You do need fattened up a bit, counselor.”  You glanced up at him and saw his surprised face.  “I noticed that you’ve lost some weight.”

 

He gave you a sad smile.  “I didn’t have much of an appetite for the past few months.”

 

You reached over and patted him on the knee, then turned back to the book, flipping through the pages.  “Here’s one for you – chocolate whiskey cake with coffee ganache.”  You went silent, reading the ingredient list and instructions, but he sighed and pulled it from your hands and set it aside.  He placed another box in your lap.

 

“This gift is really more for me too,” he said with a wink, and your face turned red as you unwrapped it to reveal a box from that familiar boutique in the West Village, the one where you had bought lingerie for your cancelled dinner date a million years ago.  But when you opened it, it just contained a sedate pair of satin pajamas, dark blue pants with a button down sleep shirt.  You looked at him, puzzled.

 

“Mainly, I wanted to see how red your face would get when you saw the box,” he explained.  “But I also know how much you love leisurewear.”  He gestured ambiguously at the clothes you were wearing currently.  “I figured you might like something other than your flannel shorts and ironic t-shirts.”

 

You cocked your head at him, more puzzled.  “What’s ironic about my t-shirts?”

 

He laughed.  “You have a bridal t-shirt….”

 

“That’s very soft and was on clearance, neither of which is ironic,” you interjected.

 

“…and I’ve seen you in a Toto shirt, and this one.”  He pointed at your current shirt, a logo of Truck-a-saurus from Monster Jam.  “Is that ironic, or are you seriously telling me that you love big trucks being run over by bigger trucks?”

 

You sat the lingerie box down and ticked points off on your fingers.  “First, Barba, Toto is not an ironic choice.  ‘Africa’ is an amazing song and is one of my go-to’s for karaoke.”  He started to interrupt, but you held up a hand to stop him.  “Secondly, I would not have brought my Monster Jam t-shirt had I known that you’d be lurking in the shadows for me instead of skiing in the alps.  And lastly, these shirts are old, so they are soft too, which means they are comfortable to sleep in.  I’ve had a lot of them since I was a kid, because we were always getting people’s old hand-me-down t-shirts.”  You looked at him and saw a strange look on his face, so you reached into the box and stroked the blue pajamas.  “But I’ll allow that these feel comfortable too, so I’ll wear them this evening.”

 

He snorted.  “You sing ‘Africa’ at karaoke?”

 

You sat the box aside, ignoring his question.  “Next, please.”

 

He selected a gift and handed it to you.  You unwrapped it, shaking your head and chuckling at his snobbish judgement of your sleepwear ( _no one sees me when I’m sleeping anyway_ , you thought, _except him – and half the time, I’m not wearing anything anyway_ ).  You stopped laughing abruptly when you saw what was in the box.

 

It was a used book – the shine on the dust jacket had been dulled with age, and there was a small tear along the front – but you instantly recognized it.  You clasped your hand over your mouth with a sob, the tears instantly springing to your eyes.

 

“Is it the right one?” he asked gently.  You shifted your eyes to him and nodded, unable to speak for a moment. 

 

“How on earth did you find it?” you asked, your voice low and shaky.  You reached in and pulled the book out reverentially:  _Folklore and Facts about the Cosmos_.  The book you and Charlie, your foster brother from long ago, had been obsessed with.

 

“I had a good lead,” he replied.  “And a guy over by Riverside Park is the best at tracking down rare books.  I told him how you described it, and he found it within a month.  I was just worried it was the wrong one…”

 

“No,” you whispered.  “It’s the right one.”  You traced your finger over the cover, then opened it carefully, turning each page and choking back a sob with every memory that resurfaced.  Barba didn’t rush you on this gift, giving you all the time to just look through the pages, remembering.  Finally, you closed the book and looked at him.

 

“Oh, Rafael,” you sighed, wiping the tears that rolled down your face.  “We said no more tears.”

 

“We did,” he agreed gently.  He reached over and took the book from your lap, then placed two gifts in your hands – a large box and then a much smaller one.  “These two go together.”  He paused a moment and shook his head slightly.  “Though it’s occurring to me that the small one isn’t going to make sense now.”

 

You shot him a puzzled look, then opened the small one.  It looked like a white jewelry box, but when you opened it and pulled away the cotton batting, it was a key chain.  A metal coin with the Toronto Blue Jays logo on one side, and a glass circle on the other side containing reddish soil.

 

Barba rubbed at the back of his neck.  “It’s the infield dirt from their home field,” he explained lamely.  “I thought you were a fan because you have a shirt from when they won the World Series.”

 

You laughed and set it aside, opening the larger present.  It was a box, containing an assortment of toiletries:  a toothbrush, toothpaste.  Shampoo, conditioner and soap from an expensive boutique.  You opened the cap to the shampoo and smelled – it was citrusy.

 

“Is this a subtle way of telling me that my hygiene needs improvement?” you joked, but he rubbed the back of his neck again and looked nervous.

 

He cleared his throat.  “Those two gifts go with the key I gave you the other day.  I thought…” He hesitated.  “I’m not asking you to move in with me.  I don’t want to rush anything.  But I thought…maybe you could stay here sometimes.”  He took a deep breath and started laying out his argument.  “It’s closer to the precinct.  We could see each other more when our schedules are busy.  Your apartment isn’t safe – the front door is always propped open…” 

 

You sat the pile aside and went over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug.  “I’d kiss you,” you said, low in his ear, “but I have coffee breath.”  He exhaled a wheezy laugh and hugged you back.  “This has been the best Christmas of my life.”

 

He untangled himself from your grasp and reached around you to pull one final gift out.  “This is the last one,” he said with a smile.  “Then we can have breakfast and watch that terrible movie of yours.”

 

It was a flat box, small – another white jewelry box.  You grinned, wondering if it was another key chain – maybe a monster truck this time.  But when you opened it, it was a necklace:  a delicate silver chain with a simple silver charm of a star. 

 

“It’s not elaborate,” he explained.  He reached into the box and pulled the necklace out, the slim chain hanging from his elegant fingers.  He unclasped it and motioned to put it around your neck, so you brushed your hair aside.  Once it was on, he adjusted it so that the charm lay just so on you.  “But it seemed perfect for you.”

 

You looked down at it and admitted he was right.  “I love it,” you said.  “I’ll never take it off.”  You started to lean back towards him for another hug, then remembered with a start.  “Hold on,” you said, standing up and dashing to the bedroom.  You returned a moment later, a gift in your hand, which you held out to him.

 

“I only got you one thing,” you said, slightly ashamed by the embarrassment of riches that Barba had laid out for you.  You settled back in beside him and watched him unwrap it.  He opened the small box and pulled out the small pewter medal.

 

“It’s Saint Ives, the patron saint of lawyers,” you explained.  “Well, one of the patron saints.  He practiced both church and civil law, and he became a judge who was known for being a good and righteous man.”  Barba looked at you, and you smiled.  “I had to look all that up, by the way.  But I saw it and thought of you, and I had it blessed by a priest.  For protection.”  He still didn’t say anything, and you began to squirm.  “I know it’s not fancy, but I thought…” 

 

He looked down at the medal in his palm.  “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice husky.  He started to say more but bit back his words.  Instead, he pulled out the gold cross that he always wore and unhooked the chain.  He slid the medal onto it so that it clicked quietly against the cross, then put it back on. 

 

“I guess the gold and silver don’t really go together,” you said, uncomfortable by his silence.  “I could get you a different one, or something else if you wanted.”

 

“It’s perfect,” he repeated.  He looked up at you, his eyes boring into yours.  He reached for you, enveloping you in his arms and kissing you before adding, “I’ll never take it off either.”


	16. Chapter 16

The week flew by.  In the lull between Christmas and New Year’s, you went in to work, covering the day shift with Carisi.  You kept up with the cases that came in – lining up all the evidence so that the district attorney’s office could hit the ground running when everyone came back from their vacations.  Carisi would call you out from time to time – “why’re you smiling so much, Y/F/N?” – but you made a crack about getting laid regularly (not a lie, you reminded yourself), which made him turn crimson and change the subject.  Catholic boys, you thought.

 

You and Barba had decided to keep the relationship quiet – not hidden, but not flagrantly open either.  It was a sticky subject, since you worked together, and you didn’t want to create any unnecessary issues.  But you did end up spending more nights at his place than your own, and during his vacation, he would wait for you to get home before pouncing on you.  You’d made love on nearly every available surface of his apartment.  “Making up for lost time,” he said numerous times with his trademark smirk.

 

Liv returned to work, refreshed from her first Christmas with Noah.  Nick returned from California, tan from his time in the sun, with stories of both Gil and Zara.  He already looked sad, you thought, to be away from them.  Amanda rolled in late her first day back.  When you asked her about her trip to Atlanta, all she did was mutter, “family – can’t live with them, can’t legally murder them.”  Fin came back, and you watched him at his desk, his thumbs twitching.  He’d obviously found a new shoot-‘em-up game over the break. 

 

Now that Liv was in charge, she shifted SVU’s focus back to where it had been before Murphy.  “Big picture stuff is great, guys,” she said in her morning briefing.  “But we will not lose sight of justice for anyone who walks through those doors.”

 

She put you and Nick back on the missing women case, so you pulled out all of your old case files and research.  You took over a cramped conference room in the corner of the precinct, covering the whiteboard with photos and timelines and theories. 

 

The rest of the team worked on a new case – a series of parties involving alleged under-age girls.  They sent Carisi in undercover as a john, and they managed to sweep up a number of working girls, several “security” guards with outstanding weapons charges, and a madam.  From your corner conference room, you and Nick watched the arrested people roll through the precinct, placed in any available cell or interrogation room.

 

You stood up and greeted Amanda as you watched Carisi, in his undercover persona with his NYPD spy glasses, be led into a holding cell.  “How was it?” you asked.

 

“We got the madam, so that’s a start,” she said.  “Hopefully we can work up the chain from her.”

 

“How’d the Cannoli do?” you asked.  She laughed, rolling her eyes at your shared nickname for him.

 

“Great,” she said.  She shucked her jacket and tossed it across her desk, then turned to go start interrogations.  “We got a lot of great footage of women’s asses for Barba to try and prosecute with.  Who knew Carisi was an ass man?”

 

You snorted.  “No wonder he’s always feeding us pastries.”

 

Amanda laughed again and went to start her interviews with the sex workers.  You went back to your desk and hunkered down to work on your own case.  You had reached out to surrounding jurisdictions as your search had widened, and Pennsylvania had responded with some cases that might fit your profile.  And, you noted grimly, they had bodies.  Four of them.

 

* * *

 

Barba returned to work too.  The two of you had spent the holidays together, and he was well-rested and…happy.  In years past, in Switzerland, he had skied a little and drank a lot, drowning his loneliness in scotch.  This holiday, he had you:  the two of you cooked together and made love and watched mindless television.  He finally got to know you – really know you.    He learned that you hated red wine because it gave you headaches.  He learned that you preferred to go barefoot, whenever possible, because you had (as you explained simply, as if it were a thing) “hot feet.”  He learned that you refused to eat pork because “Charlotte’s Web” had left an indelible mark on your psyche as a child.  He learned that you had seasonal allergies. 

 

He learned that you slept best in a cold room, bundled up for warmth, so he started cracking the bedroom window to bring the temperature down.  Not that he complained.  It just meant that you snuggled closer to him while you slept.  Which made the colder room better, because sleeping next to you was like snuggling with a furnace. 

 

You always dropped off to sleep quickly in his arms, and he watched you as you did.  You weren’t like his past loves at all.  You didn’t look down at him like Yelina.  You always seemed delighted to see him, unlike his college girlfriend. 

 

He had a girlfriend while he was a prosecutor in Brooklyn who seemed to only use him for his growing earning potential, demanding elaborate dinners at pricey restaurants and hard-to-get tickets to popular Broadway shows.  You seemed happy to stay in, savoring the little bubble you were both in.

 

He had a friends-with-benefits situation for a while, which was fine, but she always left their sessions in a huff if she didn’t finish, never giving him time to make it up to her.  You, in the few times you didn’t orgasm, just laughed at his mortification.  You always put him at ease and reminded him that he had ten fingers that you were perfectly enamored with as well.

 

So when he went back to work, he was happy.  His face, usually stony, was relaxed.  He chatted with Carmen about her holiday.  He looked at the lineup of cases that you and Carisi and SVU’s junior detectives had prepared for him.  He didn’t even get irritated when he saw Carisi’s note on a case, referencing some obscure legal fact he discovered at Fordham Law. 

 

He was less happy when, just two weeks into the new year, you told him that you and Amaro were planning a road trip to a few jurisdictions in Pennsylvania.

 

“I don’t see why you have to go,” he grumbled, slumped on his couch.  You had gone home to pack for the trip, but had come back to his place to spend the night with him before you and Amaro left in the morning.

 

“Because he’s my partner,” you reminded him from the kitchen.  “And it’s our case.”  You had poured him a glass of scotch, and you brought it over to him now.  You handed it him and he murmured his thanks.  He took a sip and you perched on the edge of the couch beside him, watching him drink.

 

When he was done, you took the glass from him and sat it on the end table, then swung your leg over until you were straddling him on his lap.  He laid his hands on your waist and looked up at you.  You were smiling down at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.  You reached out and fiddled with his tie, loosening it. 

 

“We’re building you a big profile case,” you said.  “Get that handsome mug out in front of the cameras and help you become a household name.  Before you know it, it’ll be Judge Barba, and then Justice Barba...”

 

He scoffed.  “I’d never want to be a justice.  What a waste of good suits, just to put them under robe.”

 

“Judges wear robes too, counselor.  Have you never been in a courtroom?”  He poked you in side, making you squeal and wriggle in his lap, and he felt a familiar tightening below the belt at the friction.

 

You released his tie and placed a palm on each side of his face, peering seriously into his eyes.

 

“Don’t be jealous of Nick,” you pleaded softly.  “He’s like a brother to me.”  You hesitated, then added, “and I hope you know, I’d never cheat on you.  Not with Nick.  Not with anyone.” 

 

He spread his hands back around your waist, holding you firm.  He gazed into your eyes for a moment, then replied, “I know.”

 

“I’m not Yelina,” you said, your voice firm.  “I know I have a good man here.”

 

“I know,” he repeated.  “I trust you.”

 

You leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.  “Good.”  You kissed him again, a bit harder this time, before leaning in to whisper, “now let me show you how good I think you are.”

 

And so you did.  Twice.

 

* * *

 

You were gone for a week.

 

You missed Barba, you weren’t sleeping well in general, and the case was getting to you.  There was no doubt in your mind that the bodies in Pennsylvania belonged to the same pattern of missing women in New York.  There were too many coincidences:  the same demographic of young, slight brunette women.  The same high-risk lifestyle of sex workers.  And the same person they were last seen with:  a tall, broad man with sandy hair, distinctive because of his sheer size and his ice-blue eyes.  A man who led them into the cab of his tractor-trailer, never to be seen again.

 

You were getting ready to head back to New York when a police captain in Ohio reached out.  He had a body too.  You looked at his location, the ones in Pennsylvania, the missing women clusters in New York.  You put a dot on each location.  You knew the suspect was a truck driver.  You looked at a map and saw that Interstate 80 ran through all of the dots.  It went the whole way across the country.  You felt your hackles raise on the back of your neck.  You were certain that you were circling on a serial killer.

 

* * *

 

When you returned to New York, you hit the ground at a sprint, busy with your case.  Barba was busy too, cutting deals with and prosecuting the suspects caught in the sex party sting – and fighting with Liv.  Martha, the madam that SVU had arrested, turned out to be a civilian tracking her kidnapped daughter through the sex slave trade.  Barba saw the case against her as black and white.  Liv saw it in technicolor, and she seemed perfectly fine to let Martha work with SVU to find her daughter.  You just bit your lip and refrained from taking a side when Barba ranted about it to you.

 

The two of you barely had time to breathe, let alone spend quality time together.  Barba was glad he had given you a spare key.  At the very least, the two of you got to collapse into bed together, too tired most nights for sex.  But he didn’t mind at all.  Just having you there made him happy.  He never slept better than when you were asleep beside him, twitching in your sleep like a puppy, probably chasing bad guys.

 

The two of you planned a weekend together, just dinner and adult activities, but Liv pulled you and Amaro in at the last minute.  You hung up on her, then turned to Barba, apologetic. 

 

“I’m sorry,” you said, dropping your head in frustration.  “It’s the case they’re working on – the sex slavery ring.  Liv says it’s all hands on deck this weekend.  I’m going to go to my apartment to grab my vest and gear.  Amanda is going to pick me up from there.”

 

He hid his disappointment as you gathered up your stuff to head to your apartment.  You slipped your coat on and went over to stand in front of him.

 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. 

 

He put his hands on your shoulders and pulled you in for a hug, then placed a hand under your jaw to tilt your face to him.  He kissed you deeply, teasing your mouth with his tongue until you were pressed against him and moaning softly.  Then he broke the kiss with a smirk, pushing you off playfully towards the door.

 

“Come back safely,” he said, his eyes dark.  “And we can pick up where we left off.”

 

* * *

 

You were pissed off.  You had gone home to grab your bulletproof vest and to change into something more comfortable, but when Amanda picked you up, you didn’t immediately head to the stake-out location.  She drove you to another precinct instead.

 

“Gotta make a stop first and get geared up,” she said.  “Then we’ll head to the Super Bowl party we’ve infiltrated.”

 

In the elevator up, Amanda explained the play:  Liv and Fin were going UC as a madam and pimp, respectively.  Carisi was going to be the wealthy john looking for a specific girl – Martha’s kidnapped daughter.  The house was wired for sound and video.  There would be some girls from Vice undercover too, but Liv wanted someone from SVU to pose as a sex worker too.  That way, when the scene was busted, they could go in the holding cell with the other girls and try to get them to open up.

 

You nodded along as she talked.  It all made sense.  Until you noticed Amanda smirking at you.

  
“What?” you asked.

 

She smiled evilly as you both exited the elevator.  “Guess who gets to be SVU’s undercover working girl?”  She started to laugh as the realization dawned on you.

 

“Why can’t you do it?” you asked, aghast. 

 

“Because I busted this ring a few weeks earlier and they’d make me.  Besides, me and Amaro will be in the surveillance van.  I know a lot of the players in this game, so I can feed intel to Liv and Fin.”

 

Her earlier comment about getting “geared up” meant, therefore, that the two of you were trawling through Vice’s undercover closet with the rest of the officers who would be your fellow working girls.  Well, mostly Amanda did the trawling.  She pulled out pieces of clothes, looked at you, and snickered.  You stood off to one side, arms crossed and scowling.

 

“Try these,” she finally said.  She handed you a pile of clothes and shoes.  Once you had an outfit she deemed adequate (after three tries), a fellow UC officer sat down to help you with your makeup while another did your hair.  You had always craved female friends, and had fantasized as a kid about sleepovers with hair-braiding and experimenting with makeup and giggling about boys.  _Careful what you wish for_ , you thought as one woman curled your hair and another lined your eyes in a smudged ring of eyeliner and applied a dark stain to your lips.  And Amanda, the whole while, chortled in the corner, supervising the whole scene.

 

“At least you have the pout down,” she said merrily.  “Just try to do it sexier.  Less grumpy, Y/F/N.  More sultry.”

 

Your hair and makeup done, you stood up.  When you tugged down on your skirt, it left too much of your midriff exposed.  The same with your shirt when you tried to adjust it to cover more of your cleavage, which was enhanced to ridiculous proportions with the help of a push-up bra.  Your feet, strapped into impossible narrow heels with an intricate series of tiny straps and buckles, already hurt. 

 

“How’s this for sultry?” you grumbled as you flipped her off.  She laughed again and led you and the other UCs outside.  Fin was waiting with a van for you and the UCs, and Amanda hopped into another van with Nick.  Then, by separate routes, you headed out.

 

* * *

 

Barba was watching the football game, nodding off, when Liv called him in for a consult and to watch the interrogations.  He pulled on a jacket and wrapped his scarf around his neck, then got a taxi over to the precinct.

 

Liv was in the bullpen, waiting for him.  He saw the revealing blouse and leather pants.  “Do I want to know why you’re dressed like that?” he asked as she led him into her office and shut the door behind them.

 

“We were undercover at a brothel,” she replied.  “And before we could…”

 

Barba cut her off.  “Wait, back up.  Who’s we?”

 

Liv held up her fingers, counting off.  “Me, Fin, Carisi.  The whole squad.”

 

Barba felt his stomach flip, but he continued questioning Liv.  “The whole squad was undercover at a brothel on Super Bowl Sunday?” he asked.  He wondered if you were okay.  He knew how antsy you got when you had to sit in a surveillance van. 

 

“We don’t need to get your approval, and we made some good arrests,” Liv replied as she removed her giant hoop earrings.  “And Martha was able to...”

 

Barba forgot about you for a moment as he went apoplectic at Liv.  She never seemed to have much regard for the rules when she thought justice wasn’t being served, but this was another level.  He cared about justice just as much, but he couldn’t help victims if their cases were thrown out due to shoddy evidence or gross misconduct or outright criminal activity.  Like allowing Martha, a woman charged with sex trafficking, to aid in an investigation…about sex trafficking.  And complicating it – Murphy was arrested too, part of some deep-cover he was in.  Barba’s mind reeled at the legal snare Liv was backing him into.

 

He collapsed into the sofa in her office, placing one ankle on his knee and laying an arm along the back of the sofa, holding his head.  He was thinking about how to frame all of this to Jack McCoy in a way that would let him keep his job.

 

There was a knock at the door, and Rollins peeked her head in.  “Counselor,” she greeted him with a nod.  Then she turned to Liv.  “We ran prints and some of the johns came back clean.  Can we cut them loose?”

 

Liv nodded.  “Give them a stern warning that they won’t get the same courtesy if it happens again.”

 

“Got it,” Rollins replied.  “Want to get the intel on the girls’ holding cell now?”

 

Liv nodded again.  “Put her in this interrogation room.  Make it look realistic.”

 

Rollins grinned and left, shutting the door behind her.  Barba sighed wearily and went to stand by Liv at the two-way mirror.  A moment later, the door of the interrogation room opened.  It was Rollins, leading one of the arrested sex workers in.  Her wrists were cuffed behind her in plastic zip ties.  Then Barba did a double take.  It was you.

 

He took in your face – an unmistakable scowl under a ton of makeup, your lips a deep wine color.  Rollins gave you a small shove and said, “get in there and stop complaining.”  You turned and glared at her as the blonde detective shut the door. 

 

“Really nice, Amanda,” you glowered at her.  “Can we cut these off now?  My hands are going numb.”  You half turned and tried to wave your cuffed hands at her, which meant that all of your flesh was on display for Barba to see.  He coughed and glanced at Liv.  She was watching him and smiling.  He felt his face growing warm.

 

“What?” he barked at her.

 

She shook her head.  “Nothing.”  She opened the door between her office and the interrogation room, letting you and Rollins in.  Rollins cut the zip ties with a snap, and you rubbed your wrists to get the circulation going again.  You turned to Liv and jumped a bit when you noticed him. 

 

“Counselor,” you said, your voice even but a blush tinging your cheeks.

 

“Detective,” he replied.  He paused.  “Nice outfit.”

 

You shrugged as if you were trying to play it cool.  “You’ll never guess where I’ve hidden my gun.”  You turned to Liv as if he were nothing to you but an ADA.  “Some of the girls are definitely underaged and in the trade against their will.  I think you have two that might be willing to talk.”  You described the girls to Liv and Rollins, and Barba looked you over more closely.

 

You were clearly in borrowed clothing – or else you’d been holding out on him.  Your blue skirt was impossibly short, some sort of stretchy material that hugged your ass and hips.  The skirt, paired with the ridiculous heels, showed off your legs to their best advantage.  Your cream-colored top ended just above your waistband and it showed off a stripe of your bare stomach and lower back.  It was low cut, revealing more cleavage than you usually had.  The shirt was just a bit see-through, and Barba could make out your breasts, pushed up and barely covered in a dark-colored bra.  Your hair, usually in a ponytail or bun or braid, fell down past your shoulders in big curls.  He felt his blood begin to pool in his groin.  To off-set it, he focused on remaining angry at Liv’s careless regard for the law.

 

Liv laid out the plan to interrogate the girls you had marked as potentially willing to talk to them, and you and Barba were left alone in her office for a moment.

 

“I didn’t know this was going to happen,” you told him, your voice low.  “I thought I’d be helping to run point in the van.”

 

Barba smirked at you.  “I’m not complaining about the view.”

 

You gave an uncomfortable laugh, then tugged on the hem of your skirt.  He watched you fuss with your outfit.  Every time you pulled at one part to cover yourself, another part of you was exposed.  Barba started to say something else, but Liv returned to the office, Carisi at her heels.  The newest detective held an ice pack to the side of his face where a livid red bruise was forming.  In the interrogation room on the other side of the glass, Rollins and Amaro led in the first girl to be questioned.

 

You stood between Barba and Carisi, and Liv stood on the other side of Barba.  The four of you watched the questioning – or so Barba thought.  When he glanced over to his right, he saw you:  your face focused on your partner and Rollins on the other side of the glass.  You had your arms wrapped around your bared stomach, obviously uncomfortable and trying to hide yourself.  This caused your breasts to be pushed up to even more ridiculous heights – and when Barba looked over at Carisi, he saw him staring down directly into your cleavage.

 

“Enjoying the view, detective?” Barba snapped.  Both you and Carisi turned your heads to him; you looked confused, but Carisi turned bright red.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, his Staten Island accent more noticeable than usual.

 

Barba shot him a glare.  “Keep your eyes to the front.”  He shrugged out of his jacket, then placed it around your shoulders.

 

“Thanks,” you said.  You slid your arms into it and shot him a grateful smile.  He smiled back at you.  When Barba glanced back up at Carisi, though, the new detective was watching the two of you, puzzled.  So Barba glared at him again.

 

One interrogation ended, and then another began.  You cracked a giant yawn, trying but failing to hide it behind your hand.

 

Liv caught it.  “Y/L/N, go home.  Thanks for your help.”  You nodded at her.

 

“Let me drive you home,” said Carisi, but the ADA stopped him.

 

“I’ll take her home,” he said.  You shot Barba a look, but he just placed his hand lightly on your upper back and pushed you out of the office.  He heard Carisi mutter something to Liv as the two of you left, but he didn’t pick it up.  And he didn’t care.

 

“I thought we were keeping this quiet,” you whispered as you limped down the hallway.

 

“We were,” Barba agreed, hitting the down button for the elevator.  “That was before I saw Carisi ogling you.”

 

The two of you climbed onto the elevator, and you laughed.  “Are you jealous?  He’s as harmless as a golden retriever.”

 

He grumbled.  “Sure.  That’s why I have two hours of surveillance video full of Carisi leering at women’s asses from that other bust.”

 

You laughed again, then let Barba lead you to the street as he called a car.  You shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around you.  He looked you up and down again.

 

“Not that I blame him,” he conceded, his mouth twisted into a smirk.  “All I’ve thought about for the past hour is getting you home and…. examining this outfit more closely.”

 

* * *

 

Once you were back at Barba’s apartment, you slid his jacket off and hung it up.  Barba stayed back a few paces, just watching you.

 

Your feet hurt so badly, you could practically feel your heartbeat throbbing in your mangled toes.  Still, you enjoyed the way Barba was staring at you like a starving man watching a steak.  And it had been a while since you were able to really enjoy each other’s company.  So you ignored the pain in your feet and gave him a spin, showing off your ridiculous outfit.  “You like it?” you asked, hoping you sounded sultry and not like you were in pain from blisters.

 

He took two long strides to you, his eyes dark.  “I do,” he said.  His voice was low, and it made your desire for him pool low in your belly.  He stood behind you. 

 

He trailed his fingertips, feather-light, over your hips and up across your bared midriff.  “I like this.”  He reached his other hand between the two of you and laid his big hand on your ass.  “I like this too.”  He took a half-step closer, until you were flush against him, your back to his front, his desire evident as it pressed against you.  He reached around and cupped your breasts lightly.  “I especially like these.”

 

You looked down.  The sight of his shapely hands, gently mauling you, sent a pulse straight down to between your legs.  You bit back a moan, then laughed softly.  “ _These_ are at least sixty percent padding,” you joked.

 

He slipped one hand under your shirt and the cup of your bra, enfolding your breast in his hand.  “This is my favorite part,” he murmured.  He ran the pad of his thumb over your nipple until it hardened to a bud under his hand.  You breathing came out ragged and uneven, and he ground his erection against your ass. 

 

He moved one hand to the back of your neck, brushing your hair to one side and kissing you there.  He laid his hand across your throat, gentle but firm, and held you in place while he nipped at your pulse point.  You groaned at the feeling of his teeth on your neck, then whimpered as he sucked a bruise onto you.  You suspected that he was marking you, and the thought made you press back against him, desperate for some friction between your legs.

 

“All I could think about tonight was bending you over a desk and taking you,” he husked in your ear.  “Fucking you until you scream my name.”

 

You laughed breathlessly.  “I thought we were keeping this quiet,” you said, echoing your earlier admonishment.  “ _That’s_ not exactly keeping it quiet, counselor.”

 

“Fuck keeping it quiet,” he growled, nipping at your earlobe.  He pinched your nipple until you were whimpering against him, then he shifted his hand to your other breast and gave it the same treatment.  You reached back, twisting you hand so that you could palm his hardened length.  He surged forward into your hand, and you turned your head to whisper at him over your shoulder.

 

“You have a home office.  With a desk in it.”

 

He growled and removed his hands from where he was pawing you, then spun you around so that you were facing him.  He placed a scorching kiss on your mouth, plunging his tongue into your mouth so fully that it took your breath away.  He reached down, running his hands down your ass and the backs of your thighs until you hopped up into his waiting arms.  You wrapped your legs around his waist, whining at the sensation of his erection pressing against your core.  He held you up, then stagger-walked the two of you into his home office, stopping every few feet to exchange panting kisses.

 

He set you down, holding you steady as you staggered on your feet.  “Wait here,” he said.  He left for a moment, then returned with a condom. 

 

He pushed you back until you were perched on the edge of his desk.  Then he knelt in front of you and helped you out of your shoes.  There were a million little buckles and straps, and Barba cursed at his clumsy fingers as he tried to undo them.  He finally got them off of you, and you groaned in relief as you placed your bare feet on the floor.

 

Barba looked at your hands, gripping the edge of his desk, your knuckles white.  He remained kneeling at your feet, and he started kissing up one leg and then the other, inching his way up to the hemline of your ridiculously short skirt.  He was dimly aware of you moaning above him, but then he felt a sharp tug on his hair.  You pulled him up to you, pulled him flush against you.  In the darkness of the office, he could just make out the lust written across your features.

 

“Don’t you want…” he started to ask.  You cut him off by grabbing at his waistband, pulling him firmly against you.  You fumbled with his belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.  He felt your hand reach down and grasp him, your fingers wrapping around his length and gripping him until he groaned.  You ran your thumb over his crown, stroking him roughly.

 

“I don’t want that now,” you purred against him, your hand working him until he felt like he might explode.  “I want you to do what you said – bend me over this desk and take me.”  You shifted your head until it was by his ear, then whispered hoarsely, “maybe if you fuck me right, they’ll hear me screaming your name back at the precinct.”  You released your grip on him, then pushed him away playfully.  Then you turned away from him so that you were bent over the desk.  You shot him a sultry look over your shoulder and he pounced.

 

* * *

 

You leaned against the desk, supported by your forearms.  You heard Barba tear the foil of the condom wrapper, then heard general fumbling behind you.  You were practically vibrating with anticipation.  You had been looking forward to spending time with him over the weekend and had been disappointed when your evening was ruined.  But now…

 

He stepped up behind you, leaning over you so that he could whisper near your ear.  “You say stop, I’ll stop,” he said, reminding you of your rule.  You nodded your head once, then pushed yourself back against him to signal your assent.

 

“You have to get started before I can stop you,” you teased, enjoying the growl he gave you.  You felt his large hands on your thighs, slipping up under your skirt until his fingers were hooked around your panties, tugging them off.  He pushed them down your legs and tossed them aside.  Then his hands were back on you, bunching up your miniscule skirt until it was gathered up around your waist.  You felt deliciously exposed, and it made you throb with need.

 

“Please, Rafael,” you begged him.  He answered you by placing a hand gently on your upper back, pushing you down onto the desk until you were flush on the mahogany.  Your chest was pressed on the cool wood, and your arms were stretched out in front of you, flat on the desk too.  The front of your thighs was pressed against the side of the desk, and you were quite unable to move yourself, other than your head and your arms.

 

Rafael ran his hand from the back of your neck down your spine, his knuckles brushing the bits of skin that were exposed.  You were stretched out in front of him.  You imagined the look on his face, picturing his green eyes going dark with lust.  You bit your lip at the image.

 

“You ready?” he asked.  You whispered the affirmative.

 

He ran the tip of his cock up and down your dripping slit, gathering wetness before pressing forward a bit, pushing the head past your folds.  You both moaned, but he held himself there.  You whined, wanting more, but you had no leverage to press yourself back onto him.  You were able to wriggle a millimeter or two, making Barba chuckle behind and above you.

 

“So impatient,” he said.  He pressed forward a fraction but then stopped.  “You should tell me what you want, detective.  Just so that I’m clear.”

 

You wriggled again, then groaned.  “I want you, Rafael.”

 

Another chuckle.  “You have me.”  He withdrew himself from you, then pushed the head of his cock back into you again, holding it there.

 

You twisted your head as best you could, trying to look at him.  “I want all of you.”  You whined.  “Please.”

 

He placed one hand on your hip, then slid the rest of himself into you with one, smooth motion.  “God,” you moaned, stretching out the single syllable and relishing the feel of him inside of you, filling you.  He held himself there, not moving, allowing you to adjust to him.  You could hear him schooling his breath above you, and you could practically feel the restraint radiating from him.

 

“Please,” you repeated after a moment.  You tried to wiggle again, but you were completely pinned now and at his mercy.  “Please, Rafael.”

 

He took a shuddering breath, then started to pull himself out of you before pushing back in, setting a slow, even pace.  Every time he plunged into you, you felt him press against your cervix, and you moaned at that fine line between pleasure and pain that he was walking.  He began to pick up the pace, fucking you deeply until you were both panting in ragged breaths. 

 

He placed both hands on your waist, bracing himself.  “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.  “Is it too much?”

 

You reached a hand back, grasping his forearm.  “So good,” you moaned, unable to form a complete sentence.  Your mind started to go wonderfully blank, focused only on the sensation of Barba pounding into you, stoking the fire that was building deep inside you.  You hated not being able to touch him or kiss him, but you loved the feeling of complete surrender, of being completely under his control.

 

You felt the familiar tension and knew you were close.  “Rafael,” you warned him, and he responded by picking up the pace more, thrusting harder. 

 

You came hard, shouting his name.  You felt your legs trembling and weak, but Rafael had you pinned against the desk so you were held fast.  His hands gripped your waist tight as your orgasm rippled through you.  You were hazily aware of Rafael cumming too, feeling his faltering thrusts grow erratic.  You dug your fingers into his forearm, riding out the rest of your orgasm as he stroked his way through his own.  He half-collapsed onto you with a groan when he was finished, pulled out of you as he panted from the effort.

 

Once you were both recovered enough to stand, he reached out gently and helped you up.  He sat you on the edge of the desk and pulled you into a deep kiss.  Then he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.  You circled your arms around him, listening to his steady heartbeat through his shirt. 

 

He pulled away to kiss you on your temple, then whispered in your ear, “do you think you could maybe keep these clothes?”


	17. Chapter 17

The Super Bowl brothel bust set off a chain reaction, eventually leading to a man named Johnny Drake.  Martha was reunited with her daughter, and a bevy of arrests were made across New York for sex trafficking and other charges. 

 

You and Nick mainly focused on the missing women case, widening the net.  And a dog walker on Gilgo Beach found a body.  Initial forensics showed that it was a slight brunette; the victim was suspected to match the description of one of your missing women.  You visited the medical examiner’s office nearly daily, tap dancing outside of Dr. Warner’s office until she sent you away, citing the backlog of work. 

 

Liv, Fin, Amanda, and Carisi worked on the sex trafficking case.  Between the two cases, everyone was busy – heads down, rushed bathroom breaks, and working lunches.  No time to chat, no time for socializing.  Which was fine with you – though sometimes you caught Carisi smirking at you from his desk across the aisle.  When you caught him, you stared at him until he turned red and looked away. 

 

* * *

 

Barba worked on the sex trafficking case too, supplying warrants and legal advice to help SVU put together an air-tight case.  Johnny Drake was, by all accounts, a soulless monster.  He bought and sold girls, treating them worse than animals, and he was suspected of a number of murders too.  Because of the interstate nature of his crimes, Barba was in a struggle with the FBI to keep the case with the NYPD.

 

To make things worse, Liv called him over for a visit one night.  He showed up at her apartment, every available surface covered with toys, and he picked his way over blocks and plastic trucks and stuffed animals to sit with her on the couch. 

 

It turned out that once Johnny D was in custody, his DNA was entered into the database, triggering a hit.  To Noah’s DNA.  Johnny D was Noah’s father.

 

Barba advised Liv as best he could, in purely hypothetical terms, and then went home.  You were sitting on the couch, legs curled under you as you read through a medical examiner’s report on the body from Gilgo.  You turned and grinned at him when he entered the apartment, your smile erasing the apparent distress that was written across your face. 

 

He hated that you worked in NYPD, if he was honest with himself.  He hated how you were surrounded by such darkness.  He knew you were tough – tougher than many people.  He knew that you worked hard to dispel the darkness through therapy and running and finding the silver lining.  But he wished he could protect you from it all.  Looking at the dark circles under your eyes from too little sleep, he vowed to try and always protect you, however he could.

 

But when you asked about Liv, he kept it vague, just saying that he was consulting on the Johnny D case.  Which wasn’t a lie, technically.  He didn’t tell you about Noah.  He knew you had a soft spot for the boy in foster care, cheering when Liv made the decision to pursue adoption. 

 

You had enough on your mind.  So he just settled into the couch beside you, running his fingers over your hair in a soothing motion as you picked the medical report back up and let a little of the darkness into you.

 

* * *

 

You and Nick managed to bend enough ears at 1PP to get a small team of cadaver dogs to explore Gilgo Beach.  The two of you stood under a small open tent that served as the nerve center for the search.  It was miserable weather – icy rain spattered against the tarp, and the wind cut through you.  The dog handlers were miserable.  You were miserable.  Only the dogs – a chocolate lab and a coonhound – seemed to be having fun, gamboling along the beach.

 

Nick was miserable too.  Your partner hadn’t been the same since Christmas, and you knew he was missing his children.  And his ex-wife too, probably.  He tried to call them every night, but sometimes couldn’t – the time difference didn’t help, and the missing women case was crushing him. 

 

You looked at your phone, noting the time.  “Once we’re done here, you should go home early.  Call Zara and Gil.  Get some sleep.”  He shook his head at you.

 

“Nah, I’m fine.” 

 

You watched your partner as he looked out to the Atlantic, his face flinty.  “You don’t seem fine, Nick.”

 

He shook his head again.  He took a while before he answered you.  “I’m just wondering what the point is,” he finally said, watching the as the Labrador retriever sniffed his way to the surf, then bounded backwards.  You followed his gaze to the playful dog.

 

“It was a long shot,” you started, but he interrupted.

 

“Nah, not this.”  He turned and looked at you.  “You know how Liv is looking for a new sergeant.  I thought I might sit for the exam, but she told me not the bother.  1PP will block me even if I aced it.”

 

You reached out and touched his gloved hand with your own.  “I’m sorry, Nick.”

 

“It’s okay,” he said.  He sighed and turned his gaze back to the pounding surf.  “I’m just wondering what the point is,” he repeated.  “I used to have Maria and Zara…Gil.  They were here, so even when work got bad, I had something to go home too.  Now, they’re on the other side of the country.  I thought I could focus on my career, really do some good.  Now I know that I’m damaged goods.  Nothing I can do to change it.”

 

You made a sympathetic noise.  “You are really doing some good though,” you reminded him.  “We are getting justice for victims that no one else cared for.”

 

“Maybe.”  He started to say more, but you heard the baying of the coonhound.  Then its handler, calling you over.  They had found something.

 

* * *

 

Barba was neck-deep in the Johnny D trial, and you were neck-deep in the serial killer case.  Liv updated him as you and Amaro built your case:  there were bodies in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana.  And at Gilgo – five.  So far. 

 

The FBI was circling your case, but when he saw the toll the case was taking, he wished they would take it from you.  Let the feds catch the monster who was strangling sex workers and leaving them littered along highways and interstates like trash.  He missed your joking and teasing.  He often woke up in the middle of the night to an empty bed, and when he explored the apartment, he found you at the dining room table, trawling the national missing person database.  You’d been able to match two of the Gilgo bodies to missing person cases in New York City.  He knew that you had insisted on visiting the families to tell them yourself.  You had come home from work that day with blood-shot eyes from crying.

 

And he knew you wouldn’t give up until you caught the guy.  You were relentless.  Barba didn’t think you were physically able to let a case go unsolved once you started investigating it.

 

So a few days later, when the FBI took over your case formally, you were in a rage…but Barba was expecting it.  And when you saw that he wasn’t angry on your behalf, you got mad at him too.

 

“You had to know this would happen,” he told you gently.  You paced back and forth across his living room.  “Liv told me it was a possibility as soon as there were bodies in other states.”

 

“Oh, Liv told you,” you sneered.  “Nice of her to keep you updated on my life.”

 

Barba sat forward on the couch, leaning towards you as you stomped from one end of the room to the other.  “That’s the problem, cariño.  It’s become your life.”

 

You stopped and shot him a glare, but he continued.  “You’re not eating or sleeping.  I barely see you.  You’re skipping therapy to look for more missing women.  And you’re driving yourself crazy to do it.”

 

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth.

 

He stood up and came to stand beside you.  He stopped your pacing, holding you by your arms.  “You’re not fine.  This guy is in your head.”  You make a tsk-ing sound, but he didn’t let you talk.  “I’m worried about you,” he finished softly.

 

You dropped your head.  “I just want to catch him.”

 

He pulled you into a hug, holding your tense form until you relaxed against him and hugged him back.  “No one is going to forget that you started this whole thing,” he murmured into your hair. 

 

You sighed against him.  “I don’t care about the credit,” you admitted.  Your voice was muffled against his chest.  “I just wanted to see the look in his eyes when he realizes that he’s done.”

 

Barba squeezed you tighter but didn’t reply.  The thought of you near a monster like that made his skin crawl.  He was glad the FBI took over.  He wished they could take all of your cases.

 

* * *

 

You and Nick handed over all of your case files to the FBI.  You erased all of your scribblings on the white board.  You looked at your partner, and both of you heaved sighs.  Of relief, maybe.  Or frustration.  Either way, it was out of your hands.

 

What was in your hands now was the delicate mental state of the girls preparing to testify against Johnny D.  You met with a girl named Laura.  She was heartbreakingly young and skittish, constantly pulling the sleeves of her too-large sweater to cover her hands.  You did your best to reassure her, but you warned Barba that it was a long shot.  She might try to flee before she was called to the stand.

 

One witness was knifed by another, bleeding out in the prison transport van.  Another perjured herself.  Johnny D’s attorneys pounced on this, filing to reinstate his parental rights for Noah.  You watched as Barba despaired, his case falling apart. 

 

You were only home long enough to kiss him and tell him how much faith you had in him.  He leaned into your touch, and you could feel how weary he was.  You kissed him on his mouth, gentle. 

 

“I’m going to spend the night at the half-way house with the girls,” you told him.  “They’re terrified that Johnny D is going to order a hit on them.”  You hugged him fiercely.  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the courthouse.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, the trial continued.  Johnny D smirked from the defendant’s table – until Martha’s daughter, Ariel, took the stand.  She was sympathetic.  Barba watched the jury members react as she described the horrific abuse she suffered at the hands of the monster.  She was also cool under pressure, easily parrying back the little barbs that the defense slung at her. 

 

Then, suddenly – a girl on the defendant’s side stood up and called Ariel a liar.  Judge Barth called for order, but the courtroom broke out into chaos.  Barba looked around.  There was yelling and pushing.  He saw you and the rest of SVU try to calm the gallery.  He saw you lay a comforting arm around the girl you were supporting, her eyes wide with fear.

 

Then Johnny D stood up with a roar, flipping the defendant’s table.  He lunged for the court officer and grabbed her gun.  He fired towards the front of the courtroom, hitting Judge Barth and the other court officer.  Barba hit the floor, ducking under the prosecution’s table as the courtroom filled with screams and more gunfire.  He thought he heard you scream your partner’s name, and then more gunshots – muted, this time - but when he looked up, he couldn’t see you.  He couldn’t see Johnny Drake either.

 

He did his best to help.  He checked on the court officer who had been hit – he had only been grazed in the leg and was holding pressure to it.  Judge Barth had been hit in the shoulder, so Barba took off his coat and kept pressure on it until the EMTs came and took over.  He stood over Ariel, asking her if she was okay.  To her credit, the girl seemed calm and collected. 

 

Liv came jogging into the courtroom.  “How’s the judge?” she asked.

 

“She’s okay,” Barba replied as Judge Barth was carried out on a gurney.  “She got hit in the shoulder.”

 

Liv checked on Ariel as well, comforting the girl by rubbing her forearm against her.  That’s when Barba noticed the blood on Liv’s hand.  And the blood on her jacket.  He felt his chest seize in fear, but Liv just looked at him.  Whatever she saw written across his face made her reassure him.  “She’s fine,” she said, then turned and ran back out of the room.

 

He spent the rest of the day in a daze.  He tried to call you once, but your phone went to voicemail.  He had seen the carnage in the hallway afterwards – Johnny Drake, dead, and the other court officer.  There was blood everywhere.  Barba just sent up a prayer that none of it was yours.

 

A lot of it turned out to be Amaro’s.  Liv called Barba briefly from the hospital and updated him.  Your partner had been hit in the side and the knee.  Barba knew that you’d stay at the hospital until Amaro was stable. 

 

You came home late.  Barba heard your key in the lock and got up to greet you.

 

You looked completely wrung out.  Your shoulders were slumped in exhaustion and your eyes were red from crying.  You could barely pick up your feet, shambling your way over to him.  He reached out to hug you, but you held him off.

 

“I smell terrible,” you said wearily.  “And I’m covered in blood.”  You gestured to your dark shirt and blazer, and he could just make out the darker stains on the fabric.

 

He pulled you into his arms anyway.  “I don’t care,” he said.  He held you tight as you started to cry against him, and he felt himself tear up too.  Liv had told him that you were safe, but he hadn’t truly, really believed it until you were here, in his arms. 

 

Once you were done crying, he led you to the bathroom and started the shower for you, helping you out of your ruined clothes.  After you were done, languid from the hot water and steam, he helped you dry off and eased you into your pajamas, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.  Then he let you to the bedroom and tucked you into the bed.  You were dead asleep the moment your head hit the pillow.

 

He was up a long while after, watching you as you slept.  What if it had been you, gut-shot by Johnny Drake, bleeding out in the hallway of the courthouse?  What if were you, laying at Bellevue in ICU with a shattered knee and a damaged liver? 

 

Sleep was a long time coming for Barba that night.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks were spent bouncing between work and helping Nick.  Once he was released from the hospital, he went to recuperate at his mother’s house.  But his mother worked full-time, so you helped shoulder the burden – taking him to rehab appointments, helping him with his exercises at home, and making sure he was eating and taking his meds.  You even spent the night a few times, bunked in Nick’s sister’s childhood bedroom.  You fell asleep on the purple comforter, surrounded by peeling posters of boy bands and teen actors.  You missed Barba, but you kept him updated when you stopped at the apartment for a shower or clean clothes or a quick kiss.  And Barba, to his credit, didn’t give you any grief about your focus on Nick. 

 

You loved your partner and would have done anything to help him recover, but part of you was motivated by guilt.  At the trial when Johnny D grabbed the gun, Nick had followed him into the hallway without waiting for backup.  You were his backup, but when Johnny D started firing into the courtroom, you had pushed Laura to the ground, covering her shaking form with yourself until the shots stopped.  You looked up just in time to see Nick leave the room.  You only had enough time to yell his name.

 

And when you were able to make you way to the hallway, you saw it:  Johnny D, dead.  The court officer, dead.  And Nick, bleeding out on the floor.  You had held your hand over the wound in his side until the EMTs took over. 

 

If only you’d been there.  You should have shoved Laura down and went straight to Nick’s side, before he even left the courtroom.  You replayed the moment over and over in your head, imagining how it could have gone differently.  How you could have stopped your partner from being shot.

 

But he seemed to be recovering.  You caught him looking off into the middle distance sometimes, and you wondered what he was thinking.  He was probably worried about the long recovery back to active service.  Nick hated desk duty, but his knee was mangled and required a lot of rehab.

 

But there was some good news too:  Liv was finalizing Noah’s adoption.  Noah would become Noah Porter Benson.  When you were feeling low, you thought about the little boy who had such a rough start and how he had found his forever home.  The thought made the heaviness in your heart lighten a bit.  And she was throwing a party after the paperwork was signed off.  You were going to drive Nick over after you got ready at your apartment. 

 

Barba called you to say he’d meet you there.  You were still hoping no one was on to you about dating him, and arriving separately would help with that.  It was a long shot, after the Super Bowl bust and the way Barba had reacted to Carisi, but you hoped that everyone had been too focused on the case to think about it too much.

 

* * *

 

Barba stood in Liv’s apartment (the toys, for the moment, cleaned up and put away), sipping on his scotch.  He was waiting for you to arrive with Nick – he had barely seen you in the past two weeks and missed you terribly.  He chatted with Liv, Carisi, Amanda, and Fin a bit while he waited.

 

“Amaro coming?” he asked.  Liv tilted her head at him like she always did and gave him a smile.  The woman could probably see right through him.

 

“Yeah, he’s on his way,” she replied.  Carisi asked how he was doing, but Barba didn’t pay attention to Liv’s answer.  He had all the intel from you about your partner’s recovery.  And you’d also told him a secret:  that Amaro was leaving SVU.  He had done a lot of soul-searching, you had told Barba, and had decided to head out to California to be with his kids.

 

“Hey, there he is,” said Carisi, pointing at the front door swinging open.  You and Nick made your way into the apartment, you holding a gift and Nick hobbling on crutches, a bouquet of flowers gripped in one hand.

 

“Hey, you guys got started without us,” you said, scanning all the faces in the room with a smile.  Your glance held Barba’s for a moment, then shifted away.  He caught your soft smile as you handed the gift to Liv and congratulated her. 

 

You wore a dark blue dress that looked soft; it flowed over your curves, just skimming them.  The skirt was slightly ruffled, flaring out just at your knees.  It had cap sleeves, showing off your lightly muscled arms, and a neckline that ended just above where your breasts started to swell.  Your hair was down, the sides swept up with simple silver clasps.  He saw the star necklace around your neck and smiled.  He took in the nude flats on your feet, remembering your rant about heels the morning after the Super Bowl bust.  He smiled wider as he recalled your diatribe about the socialization of women to accept pain as beauty, and he hid his grin in his glass of scotch.

 

The party progressed.  Everyone toasted Noah and Liv, and then Nick announced that he was leaving SVU and that got a toast too.  Everyone shifted from topic to topic, breaking into smaller groups for separate conversations.  You and Barba kept carefully separate, exchanging niceties but little else.  He looked for you at one point and saw you kneeling on the carpet with Noah.  Both your face and Noah’s were twisted in concentration as the two of you built an abstract-looking building from blocks.  Barba smiled to see you help Noah, guiding his hands to place another block on the rickety tower.

 

“You’re not fooling anyone, counselor,” Amaro said, shuffling over to stand beside him. 

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Barba answered, stiffly. 

 

Amaro gave half of a grin, then turned and looked in your direction.  “You two always used to joke around, and now she’s suddenly speaking like an etiquette book to you.  ‘ _It’s certainly good to see you again, counselor_ ,’” he mimicked.  “And you can’t stop staring at her.”

 

Barba shrugged.  “Y/L/N is just polite.”

 

This made Amaro laugh outright.  “Sure,” he agreed.  “And you were just being polite when you hustled her away from Carisi the night of the Super Bowl.  I didn’t even see it, but Carisi told the story twelve different times to me and Amanda.”

 

Barba didn’t answer, so Nick turned serious.  “Look, Barba,” he said.  “We’ve never gotten along, but Y/L/N is important to me.  I’m not going to be around anymore.”  Barba watched as your partner looked around the room, taking in all the people from SVU. 

 

“I trust everyone here with my life,” he continued.  “But you need to look out for Y/L/N now.  I see the way you look at her.  I can guess at how she feels about you.  So you need to take care of her.  Keep her safe.”

 

Barba was silent for a moment.  Finally, he said, “I will.”

 

“Good,” Nick replied.  “And know that if you hurt her, I’m just one red-eye away.  Even lamed up, I can still kick your ass, Harvard Law.”

 

* * *

 

You played with Noah a bit, chatting with his nanny, Lucy.  You watched Noah open his gifts, the toddler tearing into the paper with abandon.  You glanced up at Barba during this, remembering his line about how you tortured gifts with foreplay as you unwrapped them, and saw him watching you.  He raised an eyebrow at you, obviously reading your mind, and you blushed a bit.

 

Nick started to get tired, so you rose from the couch to take him home.  He waved you off though.  “Amanda’s got it,” he told you.  So you settled back onto the couch, waving as the two of them left.

 

Barba came over a moment later with a glass of champagne that he handed you.  You took it, murmuring your thanks.  He hesitated, then sat down beside you.  Then he laid an arm across the back of the couch, draping his hand over your shoulder.  You looked at him, puzzled, but he just leaned in and whispered, “they all know anyway.”

 

It took seconds for the team to notice.  Fin smirked over at you.  “We had absolutely no idea,” he drawled.

 

Carisi huffed at the senior detective.  “I told you a buncha times,” he said indignantly.  Fin rolled his eyes at Carisi missing his sarcasm.

 

“Now we know why you’ve been smiling so much, Barba,” Liv joked.  “It was creeping us all out.”

 

Barba just smiled at them and pulled you against him in a companionable hug.  You sipped your champagne and waited for your flaming hot face to cool off.

 

In the car ride home, he could barely keep his hands off of you.  He rested his hand on your knee, under the hem of your skirt, then worked his way up your inner thigh until his fingertips brushed against your panties, already growing damp. 

 

“I hope it’s okay that I went public with the squad about us,” he whispered.  “They already knew though.”

 

“It’s fine,” you whispered back.  You wavered a moment.  “I just…wanted to keep it quiet.  I don’t want there to be any…scandal.  That might hurt you.  Politically speaking.”  You stifled a moan as he stroked you through your panties.  “I know you want to be a judge someday.”

 

He nodded but didn’t say anything.  The rest of the ride home was just you clenching your fists and trying not to make a sound.  You didn’t need the taxi driver to hear you.  Barba had slipped a single, long finger underneath your hem and was gently fondling your slick folds.  Then he sunk his finger into you.  The angle was awkward, so he teased you by twisting his finger, crooking it inside you until he was stroking a spot that made your toes curl.  Then you were home, and he pulled his hand away from you abruptly.  He chuckled at your huff of disappointment as he paid the cabbie. 

 

The elevator ride was tortuously slow.  The walk down the hallway was too.  Barba didn’t touch you; he just walked a step ahead of you, his arms swinging in nonchalance as he led you to his apartment.  He unlocked the door, then waited for you to enter behind him before shutting it and throwing the deadbolt.

 

Then he grabbed you, pressing you against the door hard, trapping your mouth with his as he parted your lips and slid his tongue into you.  You could taste the scotch on him, a muted smokiness that blended with his own taste.  His hands roamed your body mindlessly, as if he couldn’t settle on a single part of you that he wanted to touch.

 

He broke the kiss and pressing the full length of himself against you.  “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, his voice low.  His eyes were brilliant green, piercing you.  “You have no idea how much.”

 

You reached down, grasping him through his pants, drawing a tortured groan from him.  “You could show me,” you purred.  You stared at him levelly, and he narrowed his eyes at you. 

 

So he showed you how much he missed you.  Twice.


	18. Chapter 18

With Johnny D dead and the missing women case taken over by the FBI, you found yourself back on a regular schedule.  When you looked across the bullpen at Nick’s empty desk, you felt a bittersweet sadness.  You missed your partner terribly – you had to get your own coffee every morning now – but you knew he was already happy in California.  He was rehabbing his knee and had a few leads on police work out there.  And he was seeing Zara every other day.  You suspected that he might be reconciling with his ex-wife, Maria, as well.  You hoped he did.  He deserved to be happy.

 

You and Fin were paired up again.  You appreciated his level-headedness, and the two of you cleared a few open cases on Hudson U students who had been sexually assaulted by a teaching assistant off-campus.  Barba pled them out, but they ended up on the sex offender list.  It was the best he could do with such little evidence.

 

Your coworkers teased you mercilessly for the first month after Noah’s adoption party.  Whenever Liv needed someone to go to 1 Hogan Place, every pair of eyes swung to you, smirking.  Whenever Barba strolled into the precinct, Amanda and Carisi would whistle and clap until your face was crimson and you fled to the breakroom.  But they eventually eased off, and you and Barba were able to work together with minimal embarrassment. 

 

You and Amanda took a long lunch one afternoon, and the blonde detective told you that she was pregnant.  She saw the look on your face and cut you off before you could even ask the question.  “It’s not Nick’s,” she said, looking defensive.

 

“It’s not my business,” you countered, then took a bite of your pickle spear.  “But he does make cute kids.”  You smiled at her, and she returned your grin.  You wiped your hands off on your napkin, then chucked her gently on her upper arm.  “If you need anything, let me know.  I don’t know much about babies, but between me and Frannie, we could figure it out.”  You had an affection for Amanda’s dog, usually spending more time with her than Amanda when you went over to drink wine and complain about work.

 

She grinned wider, her eyes blinking away the tears that sprung up.  “I appreciate it.”  She laughed.  “Maybe you and Barba could babysit sometime.”

 

You threw your head back, laughing at the image of the ADA, in one of his expensive three-piece suits, handling a fussy infant that was spitting up on him.  “Can you imagine?”

 

“He’d give the baby some snarky comment if it cried…”

 

“…and then make that grumpy face at it…”

 

“…and then walk away, doing that runway strut he has.” 

 

The two of you laughed together until you were both crying from merriment.  You both daubed at your eyes, calming yourselves measure by measure.  Once you were composed, Amanda leaned back in her seat and looked at you.  “I really do appreciate it,” she said, seriously.  “My momma said she was going to come up to help, but you know how she is….”

 

You shook your head.  “We have to look out for each other, Rollins.  Especially with a new dude in the precinct.”

 

She groaned.  “Mini-Dodds.”

 

Liv’s request for a new sergeant had been approved, and it was Deputy Chief Dodd’s son, Mike.  It had been a little rocky at first – the seasoned SVU people circled Mike warily, assuming that he was there to spy for his father.  But he was a smart detective, with connections that came in handy, and he was settling in.  Even Carisi was warming up to him.  At first, the Staten Island detective had been excited to no longer be the newest detective…until Fin reminded him that Mike would outrank him anyway.  Carisi had spent a day sulking, until Amanda distracted him by claiming that dry extruded pasta in a box was the best.  And then you had chimed in, saying how much you loved sauce from a jar.  Even Fin had played along, proclaiming that cannoli sucked.  Carisi went on a full-blown rant about homemade Italian food and basically forgot that he was still the errand boy and deliverer of bad news.

 

“At least we’re fully staffed again,” you said as you paid your check.  “It’ll be nice to get home at a reasonable hour once in a while.  And get a weekend off.”

 

Amanda smiled and stand to put on her coat.  “A weekend with Barba,” she joked.  “What’s that like?  You iron his pocket squares while he admires himself in the mirror?”

 

“Something like that,” you agreed.  “He writes me love sonnets on his yellow legal pad.  A lot of Latin terms and references to prior case law.”

 

The two of you left the restaurant and made your way back to the precinct.  “If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you,” Amanda said.  You smiled.

 

He did make you happy, and he had been amazing the past few months.  Between your cases and Nick’s recovery, you’d barely seen him, but he had been patient and understanding.  You thought he might be jealous of your care-taking of your former partner, but he hadn’t been.  Or at least, he hadn’t shown it.

 

You thought you might ask Liv for a half day on Friday.  You owed Barba some attention too.

 

* * *

 

Barba decided to leave work early on Friday.  He had sent you a text to see if you knew when – or if – you’d be home, but you didn’t have an ETA yet.  “Paperwork,” you had texted.  He had sighed when he read it.  It had been a rough day for him – he had gotten a few hang-ups on his phone, and a threatening call.  Not that he was going to tell you about it.  He’d been getting threats since he got pulled into the police shooting of an unarmed man months ago.  You hadn’t been on that case anyway, and he didn’t want to worry you without cause.

 

When he unlocked the door to his apartment, he was surprised to see the lights on and music playing over the surround sound.  There was a fire going in the gas fireplace.  And delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.

 

You popped your head out to smile at him.  “Hey,” you said, your face lit up to see him.  You wiped your hands on a dishtowel, then tossed it on the counter to come greet him.  You kissed him firmly, then wrapped your arms around his neck.  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

 

He chuckled against your neck, nestling into the space between your jaw and shoulder.  “I saw you this morning,” he said, his voice muffled against you.  “You had some choice words for the alarm, if I recall.”  He heard you laugh, and he held you tighter.  He drew his nose along your skin, taking in your scent.  You’d been home long enough to shower, he judged.  He pulled away and glanced around the apartment.  And you’d been home long enough to straighten up and start dinner, apparently.

 

“Finish your paperwork early?” he asked with a grin.  He made his way to the couch, shedding his coat and jacket along the way.  Then he followed you into the kitchen, where you checked on the food, simmering in various pots and pans on the stove.  You were barefoot, in your faded jeans and a soft grey sweater.  Your hair was still a little damp from your shower.

 

“I took a half day,” you told him, stirring one pot.  “I wanted to surprise you.”  You tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, then sat it down and turned to face him.  “It’s been chaos since the holidays and I wanted to spend some time together.  And thank you for everything.”

 

He scoffed.  “You don’t have to thank me.”

 

“I do,” you insisted, shaking your head at him.  “You’ve been on the back burner….to the cases, to Nick.  I wanted to show you that even when things are chaotic, you’re the most important person to me.”

 

Barba felt a warmth spread through him, loosening the tightness he usually carried in his chest.  He had missed you the past few months:  happy to even have you at his side, but missing the joking and teasing and deep conversations.  He had felt you drifting apart, and while he knew it was work stress, he couldn’t help but feel the similarities with past relationships.  Here you were now, though.  Taking a half-day off.  Cooking for him.  Happy to see him, that glint firmly back in your eye.

 

“You didn’t have to do this, Y/F/N,” he said.  You answered him by rocking onto your bare toes and pressing another kiss to his mouth.  He looked down at you and smiled, cocking his head to one side.  There was something different about you tonight.

 

“I didn’t _have_ to,” you agreed.  “I wanted to.”

 

He smiled at you, unable to speak for a moment.  He twined his fingers around a damp strand of your loose hair, then gave it a gentle tug.  “So what’s for dinner then?”

 

You spun around to face the stove.  “Nothing elaborate,” you said.  “I picked up a couple of steaks ready to go on.  Risotto as a side.”  You pointed to a strainer in the sink.  “And a nice mixed green salad.”  Your mouth quirked into a smile as you turned back to him.  “Gotta sneak some vegetables into you sometimes, counselor.”

 

He chuckled.  “Scotch doesn’t count?”

 

“No.”  You punched him in the arm.  “At best, it’s a grain.  At worst, it’s a solvent able to strip paint.”

 

He laughed again, his chest loosening a bit more at your teasing.  You shoved him playfully out of the kitchen.  “I’ll make you a drink,” you said.  “Then you sit on the couch and drink it while I finish dinner.” 

 

* * *

 

Dinner turned out better than you hoped.  You loved to cook and bake but never had time – or anyone to cook for.  But Barba seemed to like it.  He tucked into everything with relish, even eating his salad without complaint.  And you had heaped his plate with the greens, practically burying his steak.

 

After dinner, you poured him another drink and a glass of white wine for yourself, then you both settled on the couch.  You didn’t turn on the TV.  Instead, you settled against him, his arm around your shoulders, sipping your drinks and talking about your days.  You told him about Amanda’s pregnancy, and how Mike Dodds was settling into the squad. 

 

You leaned against him as you talked, watching his hand as he held his cut-glass tumbler.  He had rolled up his sleeves, probably on purpose, since it was common knowledge that you loved his hands and arms.  He was also in one of your favorite suits, the dark grey.  His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and you loved the bit of belly that strained against his white button down shirt.  He had gained back the weight he’d lost at the end of the prior year.  You were lost in your own thoughts, enjoying the view, and you missed a question he asked you.

 

“What’s that?” you asked.  You sat up and looked at him.

 

“I said, you look different tonight,” he repeated.  He looked you up and down.  “There seems to be…more of you.”

 

You grinned at him, your cheeks growing warm.  “I may have kept certain portions of my undercover outfit,” you admitted, glancing down at your front.

 

He stared at you with mock-sternness.  “As an officer of the courts, I have to inform you that you’ve committed a serious crime.”  He shook his head, sadly.  “I’m going to have to call this in.”

 

You scoffed at him.  “At best, it’s theft as petit larceny.  This bra is not valued at more than a thousand dollars.  A class A misdemeanor.”

 

He sat his scotch down and took your wine glass from you.  He turned to face you, his green eyes dark.  “The district attorney’s office may be willing to cut a deal.”

 

You scoffed again.  “I’ll take my chances with a jury.  You put me on the stand, I’ll cry my eyes out and make you look like a bully.”  You poked him in the chest with your forefinger.  “They’ll find me innocent of all charges.”

 

“Oh, you’re hardly innocent,” he replied.  He shifted his arm from around your shoulders to snake around your waist, pulling you against him.  He scooped his other arm under your knees, shifting you until you were sitting across his lap.

 

You huffed in indignation, ignoring how wet he was making you with his low growls.  “If I’m not innocent, it’s only because you corrupted me.”  You tugged on his tie, loosening it.  “I used to be virtuous young woman, untainted by the touch of man…”  You trailed off as he laughed – really laughed.  You loved when you could make him forget all of the masks he wore, all of the walls he had up, and just laugh.  He looked like a completely different man when his face was relaxed.

 

“You love it when I touch you,” he said, running one hand up your leg until it was cupping your hip.  “Admit it.”

 

“It’s okay,” you agreed, sounding bored.  He laughed again, then pushed you off his lap onto the couch.  He stood over you as you stretched out onto the couch, and the look he shot you made your core throb with need.  He took off his waistcoat and laid down on top of you, his delicious weight pressing you into the couch cushions.  He hovered his mouth over yours, his lips ghosting over your own until you were squirming underneath him. 

 

Finally, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to yours, gentle.  You tilted your head, allowing him to deepen the kiss, and moaned as he prodded his tongue against your lips.  Instead of granting him access, though, you nipped at his lower lip, sucking on it gently.  You had other plans for tonight, after all, and if you let him lay you out with his scorching kisses, you’d forget what you had intended to do.

 

He groaned as you sucked on his lip, and when you released him, he pulled his head back to look at you.  “I want to be on top,” you whispered, and his pupils widened with lust.  He scrambled off of you with almost comic speed, allowing you to switch places with him.

 

You kissed him again, softly, then whispered in his ear.  “I want to take care of you tonight,” you told him.  He nodded, his breathing fast and shallow, and you started.

 

You braced yourself with one arm and reached the other down to cup his erection in your palm.  His hips canted up into your hand, and you tsk-ed at him softly. 

 

“All in good time, Rafael,” you purred in his ear, making him groan in frustration.  You smiled and kissed him down his throat, sucking and kissing and pressing your teeth against him.  You worked your way down to the collar of his shirt, then you unknotted his tie and tossed it aside.  You unbuttoned his white dress shirt, kissing along the collar of his undershirt, relishing the feel of his coarse chest hair against your lips.  The whole while, your hand stroked his length, allowing him to gently thrust into your palm.

 

You worked your way down, breathing hard into each kiss so that he could feel your breath through his undershirt.  When you reached his waistband, you untucked his shirts and pressed more wet, open-mouthed kisses to his belly.  He was panting above you.

 

You undid his belt buckle and the button and zipper on his pants.  It gave you enough access for your hand to slip underneath his boxer briefs and grasp his length, heavy in your palm.  You released him for a moment to help slide his pants and boxer briefs down a bit, and he lifted his hips to help you.  But when you went to lower your head onto him, he grasped your head, tangling his fingers in your hair and tugging you upwards.  You growled in frustration.

 

“What’s wrong?” you asked him.  He looked nervous, but you could tell that he was trying to hide it

 

“I just want to be inside you,” he stammered.

 

You kissed him.  “You would be inside me, if I went down on you.”  You watched the worry ripple across his face.  “Why don’t you want me to do that?  Don’t you like it?”

 

He was silent a moment, his hands grasping your head.  “I do like it,” he admitted with reluctance.  “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

 

You shook your head.  “I don’t feel that way at all.”

 

“But you’ve never done that before, have you?”

 

You shook your head again.  “No, but I don’t think it’s rocket science.”  You reached down and grasped his erection again, squeezing him gently until he groaned underneath you.  “I haven’t learned to unhinge my jaw, so it’ll never all fit, but I think I get the general theory of it.”

 

He smiled up at you.  “The general theory?”

 

“Sure,” you said, stroking him.  You watched the conflict on his face, stuck between pleasure and concern.  “You could always coach me along.  Kinda like how you coach me before testifying in court.  Just with more tongue.”

 

He was silent for a moment, trying to decide.  Finally, he replied, his voice distressingly small.  “It’s just that Yelina told me once…”

 

You cut him off immediately.  “I am not Yelina.”  You released your grip on him so that you could lay both hands on either side of his face.  You forced him to look at you, and you gave him a stern look.  Then you stroked his face, cupping your hands around his jaw.  You kissed him and looked back into his eyes.

 

“I want to make you feel good,” you told him, your voice serious.  “I want to do something just for you, because you deserve it.”  Then you leaned in, dropping your voice to a whisper and making sure your breath was heavy against his ear.  “And I want to have my mouth around you, and taste you, counselor.”  He groaned at your words, and when you pulled back to look at him, he simply nodded.

 

You repositioned yourself to where you’d been before he had stopped you.  “Any final words?” you joked.  But he didn’t answer you, so you looked up and saw him with more conflict on his face.

 

“Do you…do you think you could take your sweater off?” he stuttered.  “I’d like to look down…”

 

You smirked at him and pulled your sweater over your head, putting your breasts – and the ridiculous bra you’d borrowed from Vice – on full display.  He reached up to touch them, but you slapped his hands away.

 

“Look now,” you told him.  “You can touch later.”

 

You went back to kissing him across his belly, enjoying the feel of him underneath you.  You liked a man with a bit of meat on him, and you felt yourself growing wetter by the minute as you worked your way downward.  You reached down and grasped his erection again, then wriggled a bit further down until you were nestled between Barba’s sprawled legs.  You glanced up at him and saw him watching you through eyes narrowed with lust. 

 

“What should I do now, counselor?” you purred, allowing your breath to tickle over him.  His chest heaved with a ragged breath.

 

“You could…kiss it,” he stammered.  “Or…or….”

 

You put him out of his misery by laying a kiss directly to the tip of his cock, cutting off his words as he moaned above you.  You kept your lips firmly pressed to him, then parted them slightly – just enough to slip the tip of your tongue out to lick his crown delicately.

 

He hissed, and you swirled your tongue around his tip, alternating between the flat side of your tongue and the tip.  Your hand held him firm at the base, dealing him steady, languid strokes.  You removed your hand for a moment, just for long enough to lick the underside of his cock, from the base to the tip.  He groaned again, louder, and reached down to place his hand on the back of your head, his fingers tangled lightly in your hair.

 

You replaced your hand, jacking him.  You licked your lips and placed your mouth over his cock until just the tip was in your mouth.  You worked your tongue against him, sucking on him, setting up a rhythm.  As you got used to the rhythm, you bobbed your head down further and further, until you had to stop.  There was no way you’d fit all of him into your mouth, but judging from the moans above you, that didn’t matter too much.

 

He tasted musky, a variation of whatever chemical composition in him that made him taste uniquely him.  You would have never thought that going down on a man could be a turn on, but you were practically dripping from how erotic it was.  You understood, finally, why Barba was so painfully hard after he went down on you.

 

You settled into a pattern:  bobbing your head for a bit, sucking on his length, then focusing on his crown, tonguing his sensitive tip with your tongue.  You broke away every so often to lick his entire length, then returned to your rhythm.  Barba’s hands were restless against your head, but he never pressed you down onto him.  He just stroked your hair, tugging it.  He groaned over you.

 

At one point, you looked up at him, your lips stretched around his cock, and made eye contact with him.  He hissed at you, and his eyes rolled back.

 

With your other hand, the one you were supporting yourself with on your forearm, you reached down to cup his balls, gently squeezing him while you pushed your head down a fraction more on his cock.

 

“Fuck,” he moaned above you, drawing out the word as he writhed underneath you.  His hand tugged at you, and you pulled away with a pop.

 

“I’m so close,” he warned you.

 

“Good,” you replied.  You wrapped your lips around him again, making sure to look him in the eye while you did.  You moaned against him, sending vibrations through him as your tongue worked against him.

 

“Oh god,” he groaned.  His hand spasmed against your head, and you felt his balls tighten in your hand.  You sucked him harder, and he came, shouting your name.  His hips stuttered underneath you, and you clamped your lips tight against him so that you could swallow all of what he gave you.  When he was done, you removed yourself with a pop, then worked your way up to where Rafael was recovering.

 

“My god, Y/F/N,” he panted.  “That was amazing.”

 

“Mmm,” you agreed, kissing him gently on the mouth as his breathing steadied and slowed.  “Maybe I should take more half-days?”

 

He grinned at you, drowsy.  “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said.  He laid his hand along the side of your face, and you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes.  After a moment, you shifted again until you were half-burrowed between him and the back of the couch.  You placed your head on his chest, listening to his even breathing and steady heartbeat as he nodded off.

 

* * *

 

You were sitting in Barba’s office about a month later with the rest of the squad, going over the case status of a woman assaulted in the courtyard of her apartment complex.  Barba was focused on all the witnesses who saw the assault happen but didn’t call the police.  It disgusted him – and the detectives too.  He looked around the room and saw everyone’s faces wrinkled in loathing as they discussed each person who looked the other way.  It depressed Barba.  If people had the ability to help protect each other, they damned well should.  Especially if all it entailed was placing a call from the safety of their own apartment.

 

He heard your phone chime.  You stood up, apologizing to the team, then stepped out into the hallway to take the call.  He tried to focus on the file in front of him, but he heard you through the cracked door.  First you said, “what?” and then “oh my god.”  And then you were silent for a good, long while.  He could just make out your silhouette through the frosted privacy glass.  When you finally stepped back into the office, you had a look on your face that he’d never seen before.  Half-stunned, half-ecstatic.

 

“Everything okay?” Liv asked.

 

“Yeah,” you replied.  You looked down at your phone, then looked up at everyone in the room.  “They caught the trucker.  From the missing women cases.”

 

“That’s great!” Amanda said.  She stood up to give you a hug, and everyone murmured their congratulations.

 

“How’d they get him?” asked Liv.

 

You gave them the details that the lead agent had given you over the phone:  a sex worker at a truck stop outside of Salt Lake City had been approached by a man.  She was small and brunette, he was tall and broad.  Just like the description.  She had gone willingly enough to his truck, but then he turned violent.  He didn’t count on her being so scrappy – apparently she had fought back ferociously and had swiped her nails alongside his neck. 

 

She got away, and she went straight to the police.  Who swabbed her nails and got a DNA sample.  Which matched to a sample collected in Kansas to a man arrested for simple assault three years back.  Which belonged to a Mark Davis, forty-years old and a lifelong long-haul trucker with a route from one end of the country to another.

 

“Turns out, he’s talking,” you told everyone.  “A lot.  He’s been bragging about all the women he’s killed, and he’s got dates and locations.  There could be a hundred or more.  We’re talking twenty years on the road…”

 

Fin smiled at you.  “And it was you and Nick that got it all started.”

 

“You’ll be able to write your own ticket now,” Carisi added.  “High-profile case like that, precincts will be knocking on your door.”

 

You smiled and sat back down.  “I like SVU,” you told him.  You looked over at Barba and added, “I’m happy where I am.”

 

“Ugh,” Fin said in pretend disgust.  “Get a room already.”

 

“Well, either way, we’re going out to celebrate,” Amanda said.  She rubbed her growing belly with a rueful grin.  “I’ll be the designated driver.”

 

* * *

 

Barba was late at the office while you and your teammates went out to a dive-bar with karaoke near the precinct.  He was writing out his question tree with all possible answers and counter-questions when his phone chimed.  It was a text from Carisi.  “Come get your girl,” it said.  There were two video attachments.

 

The first was you, drink in hand, swaying to the music as you belted out Toto’s “Africa.”  He grinned at the image and admitted that, for a detective, your voice wasn’t half-bad. 

 

The second video was you and Amanda – you clearly drunk, Amanda sober – singing a rousing duet version of Boston’s “More than a Feeling.”  Amanda pulled back and laughed at you every time the guitar parts came on between the verse and chorus, because you sang those too.  Earnestly.  With your eyes squeezed shut in obvious feeling.

 

Barba’s phone chimed again.  Carisi texted, “Hurry up – she’s planning on singing Bruce Springsteen’s entire discography next.”

 

Barba put his questions away, grabbed his coat, and called a car to join you.

 

The bar was packed for a Thursday, and when he walked in, he couldn’t see the squad immediately.  But he saw you.  You were on the tiny stage, singing a Springsteen song.  “Dancing in the Dark.”  You interspersed your swaying dance with air punches and finger-points into the general crowd area.  You were adorable and irresistible to watch.  He counted at least a handful of men, staring at you.  He spied the squad and made his way over to them.

 

“Counselor,” Carisi said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.  “You made it finally.”

 

Amanda grinned at him over her glass of water.  “Yeah, you missed her rendition of ‘Born in the USA,’” she said.  “She’d tried to give a speech about how the song’s about the Vietnam war and the hypocrisy of patriotism, but the music played over her and she missed the first lines.”

 

Barba couldn’t hide his smile, so he ordered a scotch (mid-tier, and served with ice despite requesting it neat) and sipped it while you finished and made your way off the stage.  Your face was flushed with exertion and drink, and your smile widened when you saw him.

 

“Hi, Rafi!” you exclaimed.  You reached over and gave him your usual, drunken arm hug, locking your hands around his bicep as you laid your head on his shoulder for a moment.  He heard Carisi snicker at your nickname for him, but he didn’t care.  He kissed the top of your head, and you turned to look at him.

 

“You drinking any water?” he asked gently.  “Any food to absorb all that alcohol?”  You nodded vigorously, but Barba glanced at Amanda and she shook her head almost imperceptibly.  He heaved an elaborate sigh, then flagged down a waitress to order you a water and a burger.  He ordered one for himself too.  When it came out, he made you sit beside him and eat, and he smiled and pretended not to notice when you swiped his pickle spear from his plate.

 

“You guys are disgustingly cute,” Amanda broke in, rolling her eyes. 

 

“That’s probably the first time anyone’s described ‘Barba’ as cute,” Fin quipped.

 

“Oh, he’s very cute,” you said, looking at them seriously.  “I’ve seen the family photo albums…”

 

Barba cut you off before you could finish, placing a hand gently over your mouth to hold the next words back.  Keeping his hand in place, he fumbled for his wallet.  He pulled out a couple of bills and tossed them on the table. 

 

“Detectives,” he said with as much dignity as could muster.  “Have a good evening.”  He ignored the laughs from the table as he grabbed your coat and hustled you towards the door.

 

He got you home without incident, and he helped you undress and get ready for bed.  After you brushed your teeth and put on your pajamas, you crawled into bed and waited for him to join you. 

 

He looked down at you, your hair fanned across the pillow, your face still flushed from the alcohol.  Lately, you’d been falling asleep as soon as you laid down, but you were restless from the high of helping catch a serial killer. 

 

“Want the star light on?” he asked.  You nodded your head vigorously.

 

He switched it on, projecting a slide titled “Mystic Mountain.”  It was one of your favorites, and in one of your more sober moments, you lectured him on the nebula it was in and some of the stars near it.  Tonight though, you just smiled at him, then curled up against him and gazed at the ceiling as he rubbed comforting circles on your back.

 

“Why do you like space so much?” he asked softly.

 

You hummed against him, thinking.  Finally, you answered him.

 

“I read somewhere once that there’s two types of people in the world, depending on how they feel when they look up at the night sky.  There’s the people who look up and contemplate the universe and feel small.  Or alone.  And then there’s the people who look up and feel the awe of being part of something so vast.”

 

He chuckled, but didn’t say anything for a long while, thinking about it.  Had he even looked up and considered the night sky before he met you?  At last he murmured, “Which one are you?”  But you were fast asleep, your breathing deep and even against him.


	19. Chapter 19

Amanda was halfway through her maternity leave and going stir-crazy from being trapped in her apartment with a newborn.  At first, you had been terrified of the infant Jesse:  she was tiny and had a wobbly head and you were afraid of dropping her or traumatizing her.  But you got the hang of it, mainly because Amanda would thrust her into your arms as soon as you walked through the door.  Trial by fire. 

 

Jesse was asleep in your arms as you sat on Amanda’s couch, watching some mindless reality show with her.  Frannie was jammed between the two of you, and she kept whipping you across your leg with her bullwhip of a tail.  It was probably going to leave a bruise.

 

You caught Amanda up on all the cases she’d missed – nothing earth-shattering.  The FBI was deep in the trucker serial killer case, looking for bodies and working on identifying them across the states.  They reached out to you, through Liv, for help on the New York victims.  And Carisi had been right:  you were getting some inquiries about roles in other precincts.  There was even a new joint task force forming that wanted you.

 

For SVU, though, it was just the usual, depressing run of rapes, domestic violence, and child abuse.  Mike’s dad, Deputy Chief Dodds, came through often enough to put everyone on edge, though he was just checking on his son and going over his five-year plan.

 

“I never thought I’d say this,” you told Amanda.  “But Chief Dodds makes me okay with never having a dad.  What a nightmare, having a father who’s always hanging over you and managing your life.”  She laughed.

 

“Enough about work,” she said.  “Tell me all about your thing with Barba.  What’s that like?  And don’t spare any details…. I’m bored out of my mind here and haven’t been on a date since I started to show.”

 

You smiled.  “It’s good.”  You looked over at her and the expectant look on her face.  “We don’t always get to see each other very much, but it’s good otherwise.”

 

“How good is it?” she smirked.

 

“How good was Nick?” you countered, and you glared at each other in a fake standoff until you both laughed.  Jesse was startled awake by it, so you bounced her in your arms gently until she nodded back off.  You looked down at the baby and smiled at her.

 

“I can tell she isn’t Nick’s,” you told Amanda.  “She’s too agreeable as a baby.  No temper at all.”

 

Your friend snorted.  “Yeah, if she were Nick’s, she would have come out punching.”

 

The two of you fell into a companionable silence, watching the reality show.  It was the season premiere of a dating show, where a bunch of young men and women were jammed into a New York City loft to try and find true love.  It looked horrible to you, but Amanda was an avid fan.

 

Amanda broke the silence during a commercial break.  “If you and Barba don’t get to see each other much, why are you here on a Friday night?”

 

“He had one of those benefit dinners.  Jack McCoy wanted him to go.”  You shrugged.  “You know how it is – politics.”

 

“Why didn’t you go with him?” she asked.

 

You shrugged again, avoiding her eyes.  “He didn’t ask,” you said simply. 

 

You could feel her staring at you, but you didn’t want to elaborate.  You had watched Barba get ready earlier – he looked amazing in his tuxedo, and you’d felt a pang that he was going out without you.  But you hadn’t wanted to say anything.  You didn’t want to seem needy or pushy.  But you wondered why he didn’t ask you to accompany him.  You thought about the pictures in the society pages that came out of these benefit soirees – nothing but rich and powerful men with beautiful women.  You squirmed in anxiety.  Did he think you weren’t good enough?  You knew he went to these dinners to build political capital for an eventual run at becoming a judge….

 

Amanda, brilliant detective that she was, read your thoughts as plainly as if you’d spoken them aloud.  “You should talk to him,” she said softly.

 

“It’s fine,” you replied, your eyes glued to the television.

 

“It’s not fine,” she answered.  “You need to march home and tell him exactly how you feel, and let him know that if he’s not willing to doll you up and take you out for a night on the town, there’s plenty of men who would.”  She smirked.  “Like Carisi.  That’ll get his attention.”

 

“Maybe,” you said. 

 

* * *

 

There was a new case starting.  Barba and Liv had conspired to keep the investigation as quiet as possible, framing it as a bogus inquiry into a trafficking ring with ties to Rikers.  But eventually they had to reveal their cards:  their real investigation was into Gary Munson, a guard in the women’s prison at Rikers.  And it was shaping up to be a dog-fight.

 

SVU was struggling to identify victims within the system while trying to keep them safe, but the blue wall was particularly high on this case.  Police, prison guards, parole officers – everyone seemed to be conspiring to protect one of their own.  Barba couldn’t understand it at all – Gary Munson was a completely amoral brute.  Unfortunately, Barba had run into it many times in his career.  The police shooting of the unarmed Terrence Reynolds.  The parole officer who preyed on Tommy Sullivan and other men.  And now, the entire correctional system was conspiring against justice.

 

The threats had always been a part of being an ADA, but after the Reynolds grand jury indictment, they’d been more or less a steady state in Barba’s life.  He got calls – hang-ups, mostly, and some texts – from burners.  He didn’t bother to tell Liv.  And he certainly didn’t tell you.  You’d drop everything to try and find the perpetrator, and he wanted you as far from the threats as possible.  He already worried that you were too close. 

 

You stayed at his place every night now.  You brought him lunch sometimes, and coffee, so anyone could see that you were an item.  And when he tried to keep you away – like when he went to black-tie events for the DA’s office, he hurt you.  You had tried to talk to him about it, stuttering and hesitating to voice your hurt that he hadn’t invited you along.  He knew you were insecure about where you fit in the larger picture of his life.  He should have told you that he was just trying to protect you.  Instead, he had kissed you and said he was sparing you the boredom of a rubber chicken dinner and political gamesmanship.  You kissed him back, but he could feel your insecurity growing after that night.

 

Munson was eventually arrested.  At his arraignment, the courtroom was filled to capacity with fellow correctional officers, union reps, and Munson’s wife.  When Barba glanced back, he saw Liv, Mike, and Fin sitting together with Fin’s son, who had whistle-blown on the entire situation.  You and Carisi were standing in the back of the courtroom, your arms crossed as the judge ordered the bail amount.

 

Outside, the mob of officers surrounded Barba until he was able to break away.  A squirrely looking man approached him, his eyes shifty.

 

“Barba,” he said, walking alongside him.  “You don’t know me or who I am, but we know a lot about you.  Things people would want to know.”

 

“Is that a threat?” Barba replied.

 

“A threat?”  The man smiled.  “No.  A threat would be right here, right now, I shove you down these steps and get your skull cracked open.  Bleeding to death.”

 

Barba felt his stomach drop but he masked it with a smirk.  “Right here in front of all these people?  Maybe they wouldn’t be able to save me, but they sure as hell would catch you.”  He willed his hands to not shake as he reached into his pocket for a pen and piece of paper.  Mindlessly, consumed by rage and fear, he started to write as he continued.

 

“So, amegito, I’ll tell you what.  You want to kill a DA?  Right here?  Surrounded by all these cops and cameras?  And spend the rest of your life in prison?”  He shoved the paper at the man with a snarl.  “Here’s my home address.  You come by anytime you want.”

 

The man sneered at him and walked away, and Barba let out a shaky breath.  Liv and Mike came up to him.

 

“Hey, everything alright?” Liv asked.

 

Barba looked past Liv and saw you and Carisi walking towards him.  He had just given that man his address.  It was your address too, for all intents and purposes.  Barba felt like he might throw up.

 

“Not really,” he responded, his voice low.  “Someone just threatened to kill me.”

 

“What?” said Liv.

 

“Who was it?” added Mike.

 

Barba kept his eyes on you as you approached.  “It was just a face in the crowd.  Tell the squad to watch their backs.  This is just the beginning.”  He paused, then added, “Don’t tell Y/F/N that I was threatened.”  He looked between Liv and Mike.  “I don’t want to worry her.”

 

He watched the look that passed between Liv and her sergeant.  Both nodded at him reluctantly.

 

* * *

 

You got home first that evening, but only by a few minutes.  You were crouched in the entryway, unlacing your boots, when Barba came in. 

 

“Hey,” you said, smiling up at him.  It had been an exhausting day for you, so you could only imagine how it was for him.  “I was thinking we could order in?  Thai, maybe?”

 

He looked down at you and smiled weakly, then turned away to shed his coat and briefcase.  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

 

You eased one boot off, then shifted to the other.  “That’s fine.  I can still order, and you could save it as leftovers…”

 

He cut you off.  “Maybe you should stay at your place tonight.”

 

Your hand froze.  You hadn’t slept over at your place in months.  In fact, it was basically just overpriced storage at this point – you went back every few days to swap out clothing or get your mail or to water your plants.

 

“Why?” you asked, your voice small.  “We don’t have to order Thai…”

 

He cut you off again.  “It’s not the Thai food,” he barked.  “Maybe I just want to be alone for once.  This trial is draining me, and I don’t need you here right now.  Can’t I just have a moment to myself without someone needing me?”

 

You looked up at him, stunned.  He’d never spoken to you like that before, not even when you had first met and he was constantly snapping at all of the SVU detectives.  He refused to look at you, instead focusing on some point in the middle distance.

 

You felt your stomach lurch unpleasantly, and your appetite instantly vanished.  You carefully re-laced your boot and put the other one back on.  “Are you sure?” you whispered.  “I can keep out of your way…”

 

His face softened a minute before he answered.  “I just want to be alone right now.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

 

You went to gather up some essentials, shoving them into your messenger bag with shaking hands.  You stood before him for a split-second, hesitating, then kissed him on the cheek.  He patted you on the arm, not looking at you.

 

When you left, you shut the door behind you quietly, not making a sound.

 

Your stomach was in constant chaos the next day, just ceaseless churning between the Munson case and Barba.  You saw him at work – you and the rest of SVU were in and out of his office that morning, giving updates on victims and where they stood with testifying.  You brought him a coffee, but he snapped at you again, stating that he’d already had enough caffeine.  Normally, with such a heavy case, you would have taken him lunch to make sure he was eating, but you decided not to.  You started eating antacid tablets like candy.

 

You weren’t sure what had happened.  It had started the night of the black-tie event, you thought, but then you reached further back.  If you were honest, there’d always been a bit of friction between the two of you.  You were out to SVU about your relationship, so you assumed that the DA’s office knew, but he never invited you to any of their events.  The two of you were mainly limited to his apartment – you rarely went out, aside from the occasional restaurant or drink after work at a bar. 

 

You knew, too, that Barba’s ultimate goal was to become a judge.  He’d mentioned it in passing before, and you knew that many of his DA events were in anticipation of that goal.  The charity dinners, the social calls, the political glad-handing.  But he never invited you along, and when you voiced your fears, he had just brushed them off, saying that he was saving you the boredom. 

 

On the other hand, the Munson case was brutal.  Maybe Barba was just stressed.  Maybe things would go back to normal after it was over.

 

* * *

 

Barba was leaving a motions hearing.  He was livid.  Earlier, Munson’s attorney and union rep had cornered him, giving him thinly veiled threats.  As a result, he was off his game during the hearing.  He marched to the elevator, furiously texting Carmen to pull certain paperwork for him.

 

He didn’t notice the man who entered the elevator car with him until he was standing in front of him.

 

“Abogado,” he said with a sly grin.  “A second later, I would have missed you.”

 

It was the same man who had threatened him on the courthouse steps after Munson’s arraignment.  Barba looked at the elevator panel, but the man blocked him.

 

“That alarm’s not going to help you,” he said.

 

“What do you want?  Who sent you?” Barba asked.

 

The man’s grin widened.  “Well, that’s the thing, huh friend?  You have so many enemies, you have no way of knowing, do you?  Same way you won’t hear the bullet that’s coming for you.”

 

Barba felt an icy fear run down his spine.  Before he could reply, the elevator stopped on the next floor, and the man exited.  Barba hit the emergency button on the elevator and grabbed two courthouse guards.

 

“I’m a New York City ADA,” he told them, pointing at the man’s retreating form.  “That man just threatened me.  Shut down the building and get that security footage.”

 

He took some deep breaths to steady his shaky hands.  His legs felt weak too.  The court officers came back a few moments later – the man had gotten away.  Of course.

 

Barba made his way back to his office.  Carmen had laid out the paperwork he had requested on his desk, and he started to work his way through it, willing his hammering pulse to slow down.  It would be fine, he told himself.  They would pull the footage and find the guy.

 

He shifted a file aside and saw a large envelope underneath it.  There was no label on it, no address or name.  He called Carmen in.

 

“Where did this come from?” he asked her when she appeared in his doorway. 

 

She looked at it, then shook her head.  “I don’t remember seeing that.”  He dismissed her and cut the envelope open.

 

It was a thick sheaf of photos.  The first ones were of him, taken from a distance with a high-powered lens.  Him walking into the courthouse.  Him walking out of his apartment.  Him in line at a coffee shop. 

 

The next ones were of you.

 

You walking into his apartment.  You walking into the 16th precinct.  You and him, standing on the courthouse steps, talking.

 

You walking into your own apartment, obviously on one of the days you went to pick up mail.  You out with Amanda while you walked a dog and she pushed a baby stroller.  You, out for one of your early morning runs.  The last one was frighteningly close – whoever had taken the photo had been very near you when he did it.

 

He sat down at this seat, hard.  The photos scattered across his desk as he dropped them.  He felt his gorge rising in his throat and tried to think.

 

* * *

 

You were in the bullpen, trying to track the whereabouts of one of the Munson victims who had been ROR’ed in exchange for her testimony.  She hadn’t checked in, and you worried she was in the wind. 

 

It was also Mike’s going away party – he was heading to the joint terrorism task force.  Amanda, back from maternity leave, handed you a piece of cake, admonishing you to take a two-minute break.  You weren’t hungry.  Your stomach was still twisted into knots, but you took a few bites to be polite.

 

Liv came out of her office.  “Lisa Munson just called,” she said.  “She’s moving her kids and herself out.  Gary is there, and it’s tense.  I’m going over there to check on her.”

 

“I’ll go with you,” Fin said.

 

Mike waved him off.  “I’ll go.” 

 

Liv smiled at him.  “It’s your last day,” she said.  “You’re packing up.”

 

Mike pointed out that a man like Gary would listen to a lieutenant and a sergeant, so the two of them headed out.  You waited until they were gone and Amanda wasn’t looking, and you pushed your cake into the trash.  You went back to calling your witness’s phone, hoping she would eventually pick up.

 

Fin got the call a bit later.  Things had apparently been tense at the Munson house, and Liv and Mike had managed to get the children out safely.  But once Liv was outside, Gary had pulled a gun – one that wasn’t supposed to exist – taking Mike and his wife as hostages.

 

Fin went ahead to the Munson home.  You were en route when you got the call that Mike had been shot.  You changed directions and headed for Bellvue.  And you waited there, buying but not drinking cups of vending machine coffee.  Until Liv joined you in the waiting room to let you know that Mike hadn’t made it.

 

You left in a daze and went home.  To your apartment.  Because that’s where your dress blues were, and you needed to prepare for a funeral.

 

* * *

 

Barba watched you during the entire funeral, your face blank from emotion and your hair pinned back, under your hat.  Your uniform was pressed to perfection.  Your gloves were impeccably white.  It wasn’t until the casket was loaded into the waiting hearse, when you raised your hand in salute that he saw your façade crack.  You cried, the tears rolling down your face and dripping off your chin.  You didn’t bother to wipe them away until the hearse was well away.

 

Carisi and Amanda had told him about the shooting.  He had called them earlier about the elevator threat.  He told them everything:  the hang-ups and texts, the threats, the photos of you and him.  He begged them not to tell you.  They agreed, then left for Bellevue. 

 

Carisi had texted him later to tell him that Mike had died from his wound.

 

Barba went home that night, stunned.  He called you and talked to you for a moment.  Your voice was raw from crying, and you told him that you would see him at the funeral in a few days.  He went to bed late that night but didn’t sleep at all.  He knew what he needed to do.

 

After the funeral, everyone gathered at a neighborhood bar to drink to Mike’s memory.  Barba watched you there too, drinking in the sight of you.  You stood with Fin, joking and smiling at whatever story he was telling you.  Barba thought you looked tired, and it twisted him up to know that he was a least part of the reason why.  He felt his resolve start to weaken, but then his eyes would shift to the end of the bar where Mike’s family was gathered.  Where a giant picture of Mike stood on an easel.  What if it had been you?  What if that bullet, the one the man in the elevator had promised, the one intended for him – what if it found its way to you?

 

The bar began to thin out.  Barba made eye contact with you, and you smiled softly at him.  He smiled back and went over to you.

 

“Hey,” you said.

 

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

 

You shrugged.  “Fine.”  You looked down at your hat in your hands, fiddling with the brim.  “I was wondering if I could come home?”

 

It gave his heart a pang, that you thought of his apartment as home.  He wanted nothing more than to take you in his arms and never let you go.  Instead, he nodded.  “I’ll drive,” he said.

 

The ride was silent, and the elevator ride was silent.  Barba unlocked his apartment, and the two of you entered.  He heard you take a deep, shaky breath as you stepped in.  He turned to lock the door, and when he turned back around, you were standing right in front of him.  You hesitated for a single second, then hugged him tightly.  He could feel you trembling against him.  He took his own deep breath, then steeled himself.  He removed your arms from him, gentle.

 

You looked up at him, your Y/E/C eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.  He kept his face carefully blank.  “We need to talk,” he said.

 

You blinked at him, not understanding.  “I…”

 

He didn’t let you get the thought out.  “This isn’t working for me anymore,” he said, his voice neutral.  He didn’t look at you, focusing instead on a point on the wall behind you.

 

You shook your head.  “I don’t…”

 

He interrupted you again.  “I had a lot of fun, but this…” He gestured between the two of you.  “…this has run its course.”

 

You gasped and took a half step away from him.  “But I love you,” you said, your voice small.

 

He faltered.  He remembered his promise to Amaro, to always keep you safe.  He remembered Amaro, shot in the courthouse.  Mike, gut-shot and dead within hours.  He hardened himself to you.

 

“I know,” he replied.  “But I don’t feel the same way about you.”

 

“But you do,” you said, your voice louder and shaky.  “You’re lying to me now.  I can tell.”

 

He shook his head.  You were too smart.  You were literally trained in behavioral analysis.  You sussed out lies for a living.  Barba had stuck the knife into you, but now he had to twist it.  He had to make you believe it.

 

“I want to be a judge someday, Y/F/N,” he said softly.  “I need someone who can help me achieve that.”  He looked you square in the eyes.  “Someone who’s impressive and has connections.  Someone with a certain pedigree.” 

 

He watched the light go out in your eyes as his words sunk in.  You nodded, once.  Then you looked down at the floor.

 

He turned and picked up the overnight bag he had packed earlier.  “I’ll be in a hotel for the rest of the week,” he said.  Every cell in his body was screaming at him, telling him to go to you and hold you and tell you that he didn’t mean it.  Instead, he continued.  “You can pack up your things while I’m at the hotel.”

 

You didn’t respond.  No words, no nodding.  You didn’t look at him.  You only looked at the floor, your face curiously blank.  He paused a moment, then left, shutting the door behind him.  He stood on the other side for a moment, but didn’t hear anything.

 

You texted him an hour later.  “Moved out,” was all it said.

 

When he returned home, he saw that you’d left everything behind except your clothes and toiletries.  All the gifts he’d given you remained.  On the dining room table was your key on the Blue Jays key chain.  Beside it, the star necklace that you’d worn every day since the day he put it on you.

 

Your beloved star-light stood on the nightstand, accusing him.  When he went to bed, he loaded up the slide of the winter sky in the Northern Hemisphere.  Looking up at your favorite constellation, imagining the region where the Orion Nebula would be, clutching your pillow to his nose and taking in your faded scent, he finally allowed the tears to come. 

 

It took a long time for them to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer 1: I really glossed over Mike’s death here. It’s one of the most infuriating story lines to me. I liked Mike as a character, and I felt that there was a lot of good characterization to mine (sons trying to live up to their father’s unrealistic expectations is classic drama fodder), but his final episode was reduced to terrible pancake makeup and a sudden fiancée shoe-horned into make the death More Dramatic. 
> 
> Disclaimer 2: If you want an inside look at how the sausage is made, you should know that the writer completely thought that the Rikers guard was named ROY Munson, not GARY Munson. Roy Munson is, of course, the character played by Woody Harrelson in the movie “Kingpin.” What a wacky AU that would be, gentle readers. Mike Dodds killed by a bowler with a hook for a hand. Amanda bagging his rubber hand as evidence. Liv forevermore admonishing her detectives to vest up, else they get “Munson’ed.”


	20. Chapter 20

Between the break-up and the threats, Barba took a week off from work.  McCoy was aware of the threats against Barba, but it didn’t stop the older man from looking shocked at the request.  Aside from the annual Christmas vacation, Barba never took a day off.  Not even a sick day.  He had handled a motions hearing once while sick with the flu.

 

Barba spent the entire week in his apartment, not leaving it at all.  He ordered in, didn’t bother showering, and just laid on the couch.  He put all of your gifts, including the ones he hadn’t given you yet, away into one drawer except the star-light.  He slept for most the day and spent sleepless nights under the projections of starry skies. 

 

He tried to pretend that you were beside him, telling him facts about binary stars or black holes, or complaining about the three cannoli that Carisi coerced you into eating that day.  Your lingering scent on your pillow faded, and he ordered your perfume online.  When he tried to spray it on his bed, though, it was all wrong.  It only smelled like you if you were wearing it.  The perfume, without your irreplaceable chemical makeup, was a pale imitation, and it only reminded him of what he had given up. 

 

The following Monday, he was back to his old self.  Or at least, he looked like it from the outside.  He was in a freshly dry-cleaned suit, his shoes shined to a mirror coat.  Every hair brushed perfectly into place.  It was the complete opposite to how he felt inside.  His guts writhed with guilt.  His heart ached with longing.  He worried that when he saw you, he wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade.

 

His desk wasn’t as piled with paperwork as he had anticipated.  Callier and O’Dwyer had obviously taken on some of his caseload, and the Munson case had shifted to another ADA too.  It was a homicide case now, and a dead NYPD sergeant was going make a more sympathetic case than victimized felons, sadly.  And since Munson had killed a fellow officer, his support among the cops and guards had fallen sharply. 

 

By eleven in the morning, he still hadn’t heard from anyone in SVU, so he steeled himself and made his way over to the 16th on his own.  It would be okay, he reasoned.  He just had to keep the big picture in mind.  You were safe.  He could weather any awkwardness as long as you were safe.

 

When he walked into the bullpen, it was quiet except for the drone of office work – phones ringing, people talking in low voices.  Carisi looked up at him as he entered.

 

“Hey, counselor,” he said.  “Welcome back.”

 

Rollins glared at her partner, then slid her eyes over to Barba and intensified her glare.  You’d obviously talked to her.  Good, he thought.  It’ll trickle back through all the gossipy channels in NYPD and everyone would know that you didn’t mean anything to him, so threats against you weren’t worth the trouble.

 

Barba let his eyes roam around the office, hoping he looked nonchalant.  You weren’t at your desk and neither was your stuff.  Fin wasn’t there either.  Maybe the two of you were out chasing leads on a new case.

 

He went to Liv’s office, knocking on the doorjamb before entering.  She sat at her desk, her reading glasses perched at the end of her nose.  She looked up at him, then pushed her glasses to rest on the top of her head.

 

“Barba,” she said.  “Welcome back.”  She motioned for him to shut the door.  He did and then settled into the chair across from her.

 

Without preamble, she said, “you broke up with Y/F/N.”

 

He nodded. 

 

She leaned back in her chair and continued.  “The squad told me about the threats.  I saw the pictures they took of her.”  She tilted her head.  “Was there a specific reason you broke up with her?”

 

He cleared his throat and considered his words.  “She’s safer this way.”

 

“She’s an NYPD detective.  She can keep herself safe, but only if she knows the threats against her.”

 

Barba scoffed.  “Safe like Amaro?  Like Dodds?”  He instantly regretted saying it – Liv recoiled at the barb.  He shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry, Liv,” he said softly.  “But I’d rather not have her, knowing she’s safe somewhere in world.  Instead of dead because of me.”  He half turned and tried to look out into the bullpen.  “How is she?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied.  She took her glasses from her head and put them back on her face.  “She transferred out four days ago.  She’s been a hot commodity since she got that serial killer case rolling.”  Liv looked at him, clearly still smarting from his crack about Dodds.  So she dealt Barba her own.

 

“And for what it’s worth, the last time I saw her, she looked awful.  Because of you.”  She emphasized the last sentence by looking at him evenly.  She returned to the file in front of her, and Barba knew that he’d been dismissed.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t as difficult as the movies made it look.  You should have spent weeks sobbing, eating ice cream, and driving past his apartment, hoping for a glimpse of him.  But you didn’t do any of those things. 

 

Well, you did some of those things.  You cleaned your apartment from top to bottom, scrubbing until your hands were red and raw from disinfectant.  You tossed all of your childish old t-shirts and bought grown-up pajamas and nightgowns, in satin and brushed cotton.  You replaced your work wardrobe too.  You put your silly star nightlight away in a closet and just took a sleeping pill to fall asleep each night, like an adult.

 

You thought about how Barba used to reach up and wrap a finger around a strand of your hair, giving it a playful tug when he wanted to drive home a particularly teasing point.  So, cliché as it was, you cut your hair.  It was chin-length and stylish and no one could twine a finger around it without looking like an idiot.

 

You told Amanda about the breakup over text, and she was properly outraged.  When you went over to her place for a girls’ night in, though, you were careful to not talk about it too much.  You kept it surface level.  There was a lot you didn’t tell her:  that when he left you, it was just like everyone else in your life.  Your mother.  Your endless parade of foster parents.  Everyone left you, in the end.  You should have been smart enough to realize it earlier.

 

Being completely numb made it easy.

 

Well, almost completely numb.  There was a steady, dull pain under your breastbone that never got worse but never relented either.  You would have called it heartbreak, but it was too stupid, even for you.  Because you had been stupid – to believe that you had ever been anything to Barba beyond a steady piece.  You saw him a few times in the society pages in pictures from charity galas and benefit dinners.  He always had a new woman on his arm, each one more beautiful than the next.  _He_ wasn’t sitting at home, crying and eating ice cream.

 

You stopped reading the papers.

 

So the pain in your chest wasn’t heartbreak, you told yourself.  It was just stress, pure and simple.

 

You had accepted a role in Major Case, along with a promotion to sergeant.  The promotion was provisional, pending the results of your exam, but you were an ace test-taker and weren’t worried.  Major Case was huge, compared to SVU.  You covered art theft to certain homicides and everything in between.  It was different from SVU, and a lot of your cases didn’t even involve a human victim.  Well, not to the extent that SVU did.  A rich guy who had his Rothko stolen from his Tribeca loft was not the same as a victim of child pornography.  It allowed you a certain distance from other people.

 

Your new partner was Martin Becker, a career cop with a beer belly and five years left until he could start drawing on his pension.  He was short and heavy, like a fire hydrant, and he wore his hair in a crew cut so short that his red scalp peeked through.  He talked ceaselessly about his plans for retirement – how he was going to go to Florida and fish every day until he died.  He called you “kid,” which you didn’t necessarily hate.  He also slapped you on the back, hard, when you made him laugh.  You liked that a little less.

 

You and Becker got along well, but you missed the comradery of SVU.  Your commander was Captain Joe Hannah.  He had a good rapport with most of his detectives, but he was definitely more old school than Liv had been.  And the rest of the detectives in the bullpen were mostly older men; none were particularly willing to engage in small talk, and you were an unknown to them.  You settled in to start doing some good and proving yourself.  You came in early, left late, and made sure your work was impeccable.

 

After all, you’d never have a certain desirable pedigree.  You might as well work at being impressive.

 

* * *

 

SVU caught the guy who had threatened Barba at the courthouse and in the elevator before Dodds was killed.  It turned out that he was making a couple hundred bucks every time he interacted with Barba, but he refused to say who was paying him. 

 

The threats continued.  Sometimes he had a protective detail and sometimes he didn’t.  Liv worked out a series of countermeasures to help with security.  He stopped taking taxis and Ubers; he either called the car service through the DA’s office or he drove himself in to the garage every day.  He accepted escorts from the courthouse to his office when the threats flared up. 

 

He continued to get hang-ups and muttered threats from burner cells.  Once, someone knocked on his apartment door but was gone by the time Barba checked his security monitor.

 

What was important, though, was that he didn’t receive any more photos of you.

 

He kept up the charade.  He went to all of the DA events.  He always made sure to be photographed with his arm around some different woman, and enough of those photos made their way to the society pages.  Whoever was watching him could surmise that he wasn’t dating anyone seriously and should focus on him alone.

 

He missed you at those events though.  First, he wished he was home with you instead, curled up on the couch, teasing each other and talking about work.  Second, he wished he had taken you out more when he had you.  He would have loved to sit beside you at one of these events, eating the same underdone buttered red potatoes, while you leaned in and snarked on the transparent ass-kissing.  He would have loved to take you home afterwards, peeling you out of whatever cocktail dress you would have worn.

 

The judgeship had been the necessary knife twist to push you away forever, but the truth was, he didn’t want to be a judge if you weren’t in his life.  He didn’t want to rise to that level without you by his side, charming the rich and powerful with your easy humor and amazing intellect.  He didn’t want much of anything anymore.

 

* * *

 

Every Wednesday, you took a long lunch to go to therapy.  You and Dr. Warren shelved the usual topics of conversation – your mother, your time in foster care, your irrational fear that you were going to fall through the hole in the middle of spiral staircases.  Lately, you focused on your PTSD, which had been triggered by Amaro, then triggered again by Dodds.

 

“I’ll be fine for stretches of time,” you explained to your doctor.  “Then I’ll just…. seize up.  I’ll get this thought in my head that I’m going to get shot.  I’ll sort of keep wincing because I’m expecting it.”

 

She nodded, making notes in her book, and you continued.

 

“Sometimes I’ll just put on my bulletproof vest.  It instantly calms me down.  Makes me feel safe.”  You paused, then added, “but the guys in the office make fun of me.  Because I mostly investigate non-violent crimes now.  I’m not going to get shot during a commercial burglary after the fact.”

 

Dr. Warren looked up from her notes at you.  “It’s your security blanket.”

 

“Exactly,” you sighed.

 

“Well, we can work on short-term and long-term solutions,” she replied.  “Long-term, we can work on identifying the triggers that make you seize up.  Once we have those triggers identified, we can work on re-wiring your brain.”  She went on, explaining the things she wanted you to note when you had one of your feelings.

 

You nodded.  “And what’s the short-term solution?” you asked.

 

She smiled, snapping her notebook shut.  “Short-term, when you feel an urge to put on your vest, put on your vest.  It isn’t hurting anything, and if the guys in your office give you trouble, just tell them to go pound salt.  Or the police equivalent of that.  Don’t feel ashamed of wanting to feel safe.”

 

Two days later, when you put on your vest, Detective Mancini gave you a hard time about it.  He was a tall guy with dark hair and olive-toned skin, constantly hunched over in his too-large blazers.  It made him look like a buzzard bent over a meal.  He was always making needling comments to you or about you.  He obviously didn’t like you, and you assumed it was because you were a young woman and a sergeant. 

 

“A little excessive with the protection, aren’t you?” he called across the bullpen.

 

You started to drop your head but remembered Dr. Warren’s words.  Instead, you stood a little taller, pushing your vested chest out at him.  “Your dad should have been excessive with the protection,” you retorted.  “Would have saved us all a lot of grief.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and Becker looked up at you from where he sat at his desk, startled.  Then he roared with laughter, setting off chuckles and laughs across the bullpen from the other detectives and officers.  Mancini scowled at you and sat down at his desk, suddenly focused on the file in front of him.

 

“Good one, kid,” your partner said, wiping his eyes.  He didn’t come over to you, but you knew there was a hearty backslap waiting for you the next time he had a chance.  Despite the vest, you winced in painful anticipation.

 

* * *

 

Barba knew that you only worked a short distance away from his office, so every time he arrived or left work, he looked for you.  He tried a few different coffee shops nearby, hoping to run into you.  He hadn’t seen you since that terrible day, and his last image of you in his head was a heart-breaking one.  He just wanted to see you once; he wanted to look at you and know you were okay.

 

He finally saw you at the courthouse, late one afternoon.  You were in the hallway, having an animated conversation with an older man and your new ADA, Emma Niles.  You were in different clothes – it looked like you had given up on your standard jeans/blazer/boots uniform.  You wore a black suit, well-tailored, and oxford shoes buffed to a high shine.  He could just make out the gleam of your shield, clipped to the lapel of your jacket.

 

Your hair was shorter too, and Barba felt a pang.  He loved your hair – he loved burying his nose against your head, smelling your shampoo.  He loved when you showered and let it air-dry so that it waved and curled wildly.  He loved wrapping it around his fingers and giving it a firm little tug until your mouth quirked into a smile at him.  The new haircut looked good on you though – it suited the shape of your face. 

 

You stood in the hallway, ticking off points on your fingers.  Barba watched the ADA’s face, nodding along with whatever you were saying.  He shifted his gaze to the older man (your partner?), who was grinning at you like he was amused. 

 

Barba backed away and took a different route.  He got to see you, and that would have to be enough.

 

He met with Rollins later that evening to prep for her testimony the next day.  SVU was investigating an elite athlete named Jenna who had been sexually assaulted, and he wanted to make sure everyone knew where they stood.  It was a difficult case, because the woman was living a double life as a sex worker, and the accused was a rich man who worked in the financial district.

 

Rollins sat on the stand and glared at Barba, who stood in front of her.

 

“Is that how you plan on answering the defense’s questions, detective?” he asked.

 

She responded by crossing her arms and leaning back.  “Nope,” she replied.  “I just don’t know why I have to do this at all.  I’ve testified a million times.”

 

Barba sighed.  “Jenna is a complicated victim.  We need to practice everything the defense is going to throw at you.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that?”  She didn’t allow him to reply before continuing.  “Besides, I am buried with paperwork on other cases too.  I could be working on that instead.  We’re shorthanded now, thanks to you.”

 

“Excuse me?” he asked.  He felt himself flushing at the insinuation, but Rollins steamrolled right over the suggestion into outright accusation.

 

“Y/F/N left SVU because of you.”  She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, her eyes flashing in anger at him.

 

“I never told her to…” he started.

 

She leaned forward more, pointing a finger in his face.  Barba had watched enough interrogations to know that Rollins could be intense, but having the petite detective directing her anger to him was altogether terrifying.  He almost felt sympathy for the accused who had to face her. 

 

“She left because you hurt her so bad that she couldn’t work there anymore.  You didn’t just break up with her.  You tore the heart right out of her.”

 

He was aghast.  “She said that?”

 

Amanda put her hand down and sighed.  “No, but she’s like a dog.  She hides her pain.  You know how she is.”  He nodded, and she leaned forward, crossing her arms across the front of the witness stand.  She looked at him expectantly. 

 

“It’s better this way,” he finally said.

 

“Is it?  Better for her or for you?”

 

“For her,” he replied, his voice small.  His stomach was doing that thing again, churning with guilt and regret.  “Trust me, detective.  If I hurt her, know that I hurt myself a hundred times worse in the process.”

 

“Is this about the threats?  The photos they took of her?”

 

He nodded in reply, and Rollins softened her glaring just a fraction.  “You can still make this right,” she said, a bit less angry than before.

 

He looked down at his question tree, his throat tight with emotion.  “It’s better this way,” he reiterated.  “She’ll get over it and move on with someone else.”

 

He could feel Rollins staring at him.  He hadn’t meant to open up, he had intended to tell her to mind her own damned business.  There was an uncomfortable silence in the empty courtroom before she responded.

 

“I don’t think she will get over it.  Or move on with someone else,” she said softly.  He looked at her, and she met his gaze with a sad expression.  “Before you broke up, when we’d go out together, you were all she’d talk about.  How great you were.  How happy you made her.  How much she loved you.”  Rollins leaned back in her seat and re-crossed her arms before resuming.

 

“You know what she talks about now?  How to make a name for herself at NYPD.”  She paused a beat.  “She wants to be impressive.”

 

* * *

 

You and Becker were sitting in the conference room at Major Case for the morning briefing.  Captain Hannah stood at the front of the room, writing new cases across the giant whiteboard and assigning them to teams.  A slew of burglaries, a larceny by extortion, and a kidnapping that was probably a parental abduction.  Hannah assigned them out at random, and depending on the case, it either drew groans or cheers from the detectives picked.

 

“We had a mugging and assault come through early this morning,” Hannah said.  “Who wants to go to Mercy and interview the vic?”

 

“Since when do we handle muggings?” Mancini called out.  “Can’t the local precinct take care of it?

 

Hannah gave Mancini a patient, weary look.  “Usually, yes, but the vic is an ADA...”  
  
“Niles?” Becker cut in.

 

“No,” Hannah replied.  He glanced down at his paper.  “It’s Barba.  Apparently he’s been getting a lot of threats, and given the tenor between the District Attorney’s office and NYPD right now, the chief wants to make sure that we treat it seriously.”

 

You kept your face carefully blank while the captain read off Barba’s name, but you felt your stomach drop.  Was he hurt badly?  What had happened? 

 

“Becker, Y/L/N,” Hannah broke in.  “Take this one.  Go up to Mercy and take a statement.  See if this was just a random mugging or something more.”

 

You felt your stomach drop again, but then Mancini interrupted again.

 

“That a good idea, cap?”  You turned around and narrowed your eyes at the other detective.  “She used to date him.”

 

When you turned back around to face the front, Hannah was looking at you.  “That so, Y/L/N?”

 

You nodded, reluctantly.  Becker had your back though – it didn’t hurt that he openly disdained Mancini. 

 

“We’ll take the case, captain,” your partner said.  “We’re waiting on the lab on that burglary case anyway, so we have some bandwidth.  You know Y/L/N is a professional.  We’ll be fine.”  Hannah nodded, and he put your names down on the whiteboard beside the “Asslt/mug – Barba” line.  You stomach gave one final lurch, and the meeting ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: In real life (according to Wikipedia, which cannot be wrong), Major Case doesn’t handle crimes like homicide, assault, or muggings. But in the “Law and Order” expanded universe, Major Case investigated A LOT of those types of crimes. Detective Bobby Goren was known for tilting his head awkwardly at suspected murderers. As such, this story utilizes the “L&O” version of Major Case. If we wanted reality, gentle readers, we’d be reading 20+ chapters of paperwork, bureaucracy, and waiting for lab and tech work to be completed. A multi-chapter story that tracks a detective waiting months for DNA results? Yes, please.
> 
> Head Canon No One Asked For: I like to imagine the reader is sitting at Alex Eames old desk, because the writer stans Alex Eames, always and forever.


	21. Chapter 21

Becker drove, and you rode in the passenger seat, willing your stomach to stop flip-flopping.  You felt like you might throw up the bagel you’d eaten for breakfast.  Aside from the photos in the newspaper of him in his tuxedo, his arm threaded around the waists of impossibly thin and beautiful women, you hadn’t seen Barba in a while.  Not since the day of Dodds’ funeral, when he looked at you like he was bored and then broke up with you.

 

“You gonna be okay, kid?” Becker said, glancing over at you.  “Sorry I spoke up in there without talking to you first.  Mancini is an asshole.”

 

“I’m fine,” you replied, looking at the world passing by from your window.  You applied your relaxation techniques, glommed from therapy and tai chi and every mindfulness training you had ever taken.  Mainly, you took deep breaths, but no so deep that you hyperventilated.

 

Becker parked.  The two of you made your way past security, then headed towards the front desk to get Barba’s whereabouts.  Becker leaned towards you.

 

“You want me to take the lead?” he asked.  “Or are you taking point, Sarge?”  He grinned at you, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

 

“I can take lead,” you said.  “Gotta earn my new paygrade somehow.”  The nurse gave you the room number and wing of where Barba was, and the two of you headed in that direction.  You took more deep breaths.  You could do this.  You weren’t some scared little girl.  You were a goddamned sergeant with the NYPD.  You trained under the best at the FBI.  You could do this.  You could face the asshole in the expensive suit.  You hyped yourself up into a cold sort of fury, one that could focus you on the task at hand.

 

You reached the room, and Becker gave a little knock and the two of you entered.

 

The asshole in the expensive suit looked small and defeated, lying in the hospital bed.  And he wasn’t in a suit at all, but a faded cotton hospital gown.  He looked up and saw you and Becker.  His green eyes were blood-shot and there were heavy bags under his eyes.  Whatever he saw on your face made him flinch slightly.  Your cold fury faded, and the steady pain under your breastbone intensified.

 

You looked away and saw both Liv and Fin sitting on the other side of the bed.  They stood when you entered, both of them smiling broadly at you.

 

“Detective Y/L/N,” Fin said, making his way over to hug you.  “Long time no see.”

 

You yielded to his hug, embracing him back before you pushed him away.  “That’s Sergeant Y/L/N to you, Sergeant Tutuola.  Don’t act like we didn’t sit for the test at the same time.”

 

“I’m just mad you scored higher than me.”

 

You scoffed.  “Because I studied, Fin, instead of playing X-Box with a bunch of kids in my downtime.”

 

Barba, his voice pitifully small, asked from his place on the bed.  “You’re a sergeant now?”

 

“Yeah,” you said.  You flicked your badge with your finger.  “The finest nickel and rhodium money could buy.”

 

Becker snorted beside you, and you introduced him to Barba, Liv, and Fin.  For a moment, the room was a tangle of shaking hands and “nice to meet-cha’s.”  You glanced down at Barba and saw him staring at you.  He’s probably pissed that he got his ex-girlfriend as a responding officer, you thought.

 

Becker reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny notepad and pencil.  “Walk us through what happened, counselor.” 

 

Barba gave the details.  He’d been walking in the courthouse garage towards his car when a man rushed him.  He thought the man wanted his wallet, so he had reached for it.  When he was reaching, he twisted away from the knife that the man slashed at him.  The knife cut him, and Barba fell.  He was able to hit the panic button on his key fob though.  It scared the man, who fled on foot.  Then Barba was able to call for help and was transported to Mercy.  The damage?  A deep slash across his chest that required stitches.  Also, a slight concussion from banging his head on the concrete.  Thank god he’s hard-headed, you thought grimly.

 

“Can you describe the man?” Becker asked, scribbling down the details.

 

Barba sighed.  “Taller than me.”  Becker quirked an eyebrow, and he continued.  “Latino.”  He thought for a moment.  “Or possibly a light-skinned black man.”  Another beat.  “Or a tan white man.”

 

Becker wrote it all down dutifully, then looked at you.  “So we can put a BOLO out on a taller man who’s either black, white, or Latino.  Should have him within an hour.”

 

You shook your head at your partner, then took over the statement.  “Can you close your eyes for a moment?” you asked Barba.  He nodded reluctantly, then shut his eyes. 

 

“I want you to put yourself back in that garage last night.  Before you were attacked.  You’re walking, you’re probably scrolling through your email.  You can feel your briefcase in your other hand, gripping the handle.  What do you notice?  Any sounds or smells?  Anything out of the corner of your eye?”

 

It was a technique you learned at the FBI, and it was useful for a lot of the victims at SVU.  It was worth a shot here, you figured. 

 

Barba shook his head.  “Nothing,” he said.  Then his face screwed up a bit in concentration.  “Maybe a sound?”

 

“What sound?” you asked.  “A car door slamming?  A voice?”

 

He shook his head again, his eyes still shut.  “A clatter.  Like an empty soda can being tossed onto the floor.  A metal sort of clatter, and then the can rolling.  It was…. off to my left.  Right before the guy rushed me.”  He opened his eyes and gazed back at you.

 

You nodded encouragingly.  “Good.  That’s good.”  You turned to Becker.  “We can go to the courthouse and pull the footage.  I know there’s cameras in the garage.”  Then you turned back to Barba.

 

“Anything actually stolen?” 

 

“I couldn’t find my wallet, but I don’t remember him taking it.  I probably dropped it in the garage.”

 

“Still got your watch and phone?  Your briefcase?”

 

He gestured to the rolling table by the hospital bed.  His case was there.  There was a plastic bag sitting there too, with his smaller belongings inside.  You saw his phone and his watch.  His gold pen and a scatter of loose coins.  And his gold cross necklace.  The steady pain in your chest throbbed when you noticed the St. Ives medal that you’d given him, still on the chain.

 

You cleared your throat.  “And you didn’t see him toss the knife as he ran?”

 

“No,” Barba replied.  He continued to stare at you, like green fire burning into you.  You took a steadying breath and turned back to Becker.

 

“We’ll go sweep the scene again, since we have to pull the tape from the garage anyway.  Build a timeline.  See if we can find the wallet.”  He nodded and snapped his notebook shut.

 

You turned to face Barba, shifting your eyes to Liv and Fin as well.  “At the surface, this looks like a simple mugging gone wrong, but I want to consider the threats as well.”

 

Liv nodded.  “We have all the details on those.”  Her eyes shifted to Barba, and you turned in time to see him shaking his head slightly at her.

 

“I need all the details, please,” you said.  You didn’t know what the two of them were playing at, but you could feel a lash of frustration rise up.  “Or we could close this out as a mugging and let it go cold.  Your choice.”

 

Fin cut in.  “We have all the details.”

 

“Good,” you told your old partner.  “We’ll stop by to get them after we leave the courthouse.”  You nodded at all of them in farewell, then turned back a moment to Barba.  “Get well,” you said softly before turning on your heel and leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

The cut across Barba’s chest burned like a line of fire, and every time he breathed, it hurt.  He hadn’t felt it when it happened – he had been stunned when he fell and hit his head, but he was feeling it now.

 

Liv and Fin had come immediately, but it wasn’t their jurisdiction (“You’re a special victim,” Fin drawled.  “But not _that_ special.”).  They called McCoy, who called the chief, who kicked the case up to Major Case.  An ADA was a big deal – especially one that was getting death threats for the past year.

 

Then you walked through the door.  It took his breath away, making the cut nerve endings across his chest sizzle with pain.  You looked down at him coolly then greeted your former teammates.  He looked you over – you were in a sharp suit, cut to perfection.  Your hair was perfectly styled and your makeup was too.  Under the collar of your crisp blue button down, he could just make out a tasteful strand of tiny pearls.  You looked great.  But you also looked like someone who was wearing a mask, or a wall of armor.  He felt that familiar twist of guilt.  He could guess why.

 

He caught you joking with Fin about being a sergeant.  “You’re a sergeant now?” he blurted out before he was able to stop himself.

 

You turned to him, your face a careful mask that showed no emotion.  You tapped your new shield with a perfectly manicured nail and made a joke about the gold-plating or something.  Then you got down to business.

 

God, you were good.  Barba had been replaying the attack over and over in his head, remembering only the flash of the knife in the light and the bolt of pain in the back of his head.  Then you came in, making him shut his eyes, practically hypnotizing him with your low voice, until he remembered the sound of an aluminum can being tossed.  Maybe he’d be able to remember more.

 

When you mentioned the threats, though, he clenched back up.  He tried to communicate with Liv that he did not want you to know everything about the threats he had received.  You caught the look that passed between him and Liv, narrowing your eyes and calling him out in your new, no-nonsense sergeant voice.  And Fin, that traitor, agreed to give you everything.  Including, presumably, the pictures of you.

 

He lay back in his bed, defeated.  You and your new partner laid out a plan and went to leave.  Before you did, though, you turned to him, your face almost soft.  “Get well,” you told him.  Then you were gone.

 

* * *

  
You pulled the footage from the garage’s cameras:  the one that would have shown Barba and his assailant was out.  Of course.  The other angles, at a quick glance, didn’t show much.

 

You found Barba’s wallet underneath his car.  You bagged it, just to be safe, but you doubted that the assailant ever touched it, let alone left a perfect thumbprint on it.  You felt sick to your stomach when you looked at the blood stain on the concrete floor, but you bit back on your discomfort and kept working.

 

You stopped by SVU, where Fin handed over a file on the threats against Barba.  It was a scattershot pile of dates and times of calls and texts, a list of numbers from burner cells.  A summary on the man who had approached Barba at the courthouse a few time, currently in custody at Rikers.  And a stack of photos.

 

You thumbed through them, looking at the shots of Barba – leaving his work, leaving his apartment, looking grouchy at a coffee shop.  Underneath those were shots of you.  You felt sick to your stomach again.  There were shots of you leaving your apartment and Barba’s, you out walking with Amanda, Jesse, and Frannie.  A shot of you jogging in the morning. 

 

Why didn’t he ever tell you?  Why didn’t Liv or Fin or anyone else?  You felt nauseous, but angry too. 

 

You and Becker gave an update a few days later at the morning briefing.  You let Becker give the details:  the only prints on the wallet were Barba’s, the camera with the best angle was out, and the assailant was either black, white, or Latino.  There was no weapon and no other witnesses.

 

“Great use of police resources,” Mancini called out from his perch in the back. 

 

You didn’t necessarily disagree.  It did appear to be a random mugging, despite the fact that nothing was actually stolen.  Just a random act of violence?  A coincidence that it was Barba?  You weren’t sure what to think, but you knew when you looked at the bigger picture, the hair on the back of your neck stood up.  Something felt…off.

 

Unfortunately, Captain Hannah agreed with Mancini.  “Unless something new comes up, leave it for now,” he ordered you.  “We have a string of new break-ins in mid-town.  You take the lead on those.”

 

You nodded and took down the details of the new case. 

 

There was nothing stopping you from investigating Barba’s mugging on your own.  Well, technically it was a big no-no, since your captain technically ordered you to leave it alone for now.  But a bit of light detective work in your off-hours couldn’t hurt, right?

 

Becker left for the night, and the bullpen at Major Case eventually cleared out.  “Paperwork,” was the only excuse you gave when people remarked on you, hunched over your desk and still working as they left.

 

Once everyone was gone, you pulled up the footage from the other cameras from the garage.  You had an approximate time of the attack – around 11 – so you honed in on those time stamps. 

 

Your eyes were starting to glaze over when you noticed it.  At 10:48 PM, you saw a shadowy figure by a concrete support pillar, grainy and practically indistinct.  Nothing to work with there.  But then you saw the figure’s arm move, and a flash of light against something metal.  You stopped the video and rewound, watching it again and again.  It looked almost like he was tossing a can towards one of the garbage cans in the garage.  You remembered Barba saying that he heard the clatter and rolling of an aluminum can.

 

Maybe, you thought.  You shrugged to yourself in the empty bullpen, then grabbed your coat.  The garage was a short walk away, and even long-shots were shots.

 

The garage was eerie that late at night, and you took a deep breath, imagining Barba walking alone and being attacked.  You may be angry at him, and hurt, but you never wanted him to suffer.  He had looked so lost and defeated in that hospital bed that you almost forgave him.  Almost.

 

You walked over to the pillar that the figure had been standing near.  You looked over at the garbage can, emptied since the night of the attack.  Barba had heard it hit the ground though, and roll.  You looked down at the ground, searching.

 

There were two cans on the floor that had rolled and settled into a corner behind a standpipe.  You bagged each separately.  Long-shots were still shots, you told yourself.  At least the DA’s office couldn’t say you weren’t trying.

 

You took the cans to forensics the next day.  You asked if they could keep the results quiet; explaining in vague but official sounding terms that you were investigating a case that was sensitive.  The technician, a bored looking young man, agreed and signed the evidence in. 

 

You didn’t tell Becker about any of it.

 

You called Barba in the meantime at his office.  You kept it official, giving him the update to his case – or the lack thereof.  You asked if he remembered anything new.  He didn’t.  You asked if he was healing up okay.  He was.  There was an awkward silence, so you went to sign off.

 

“I wanted to say,” Barba started, then cleared his throat.  “I wanted to say congratulations on your promotion.”  There was another awkward pause on the line.

 

There were a lot of things you wanted to say too; specifically, you wanted to ask about the photos of you in his threats file.  Instead, you just said, “thank you” and hung up.

 

It took a month before the lab results came back on the cans.  Techs were able to pull prints from both.  And they got two matches.  You told Becker that you needed some fresh air, then went down to the lab alone.

 

The bored tech walked you through the results.  The first can had prints that matched a known criminal with a slew of charges ranging from simple assault to petty larceny to a dropped weapons charge.  A one Lacey Houghton.  The tech pulled up her rap sheet on the screen:  a petite woman, obviously shorter than Barba, and not a man, white, black, or otherwise.

 

Then the tech perked up to show you the second set of prints.  “They were smeared, but I was able to pull a partial thumbprint and get a match.”  He grinned at you.  “You testing me, sarge?”  You shook your head, confused, so he pulled up the screen on the match.

 

NYPD started fingerprinting all of its officers and detectives in 2013 after a massive overtime scandal.  Which is why the second can pulled a match:  to detective Carl Mancini.  Your hackles went up immediately, and you felt an icy finger draw down your spine.

 

“You pulling a prank on Mancini?” the tech asked, still grinning.  “He’s gonna blow his lid.”

 

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice light.  “Just hold tight on this, okay?  I need to, uh…get a few other things in place.”

 

“Sure,” the tech replied.  He closed down the screens and handed you the folder with the results.  You tucked it under your arm and went back to your desk, shoving the folder into your drawer before anyone could see you.  You looked at your partner, then looked around the bullpen at the rest of your colleagues.  You felt your paranoia growing, like a rash across your skin until you felt itchy all over.

 

On the way home that night, you bought a burner cell.

 

* * *

 

Barba’s cell phone pinged late that night, and he sighed.  When he looked, it was from an unknown number.  “We need to talk,” it said.

 

He ignored it.  A moment later, another text.  “Re:  Your case.”

 

He felt the usual wave of fear.  Was this his attacker?  Should he engage and try to draw him out, or keep ignoring him?

 

Another ping.  “This is not your attacker.”

 

Finally, he responded.  “That’s what my attacker would say,” he typed back.

 

He watched the three dots blink across his screen.  Whoever was responding was either writing a novel or struggling for a reply.  Then the message came through.  “Won’t type out my name.  Assume I’m from the Orion nebula.”

 

Barba felt his heart leap in his chest.  Was it you?  Why were you texting from an unknown number?  Had you changed your number after he broke up with you?  Could the person or people stalking him know that much about you?  He didn’t have a chance to respond before more texts came across.  Instructions this time.

 

“Think I’m onto something.  Don’t tell anyone.”

 

Then another text.  “Find an excuse to be in Callier’s office tomorrow morning, 7.  Come alone.”

 

He read the texts twice, then turned his phone over and sat at his desk at home, thinking.  Then, one last text came through.  “You asshole.”  Despite his quickened pulse, he couldn’t help but smile.  It had to be you.

 

The next morning, he put on his best three-piece suit and made his way to work.  His heart was hammering in his chest, and when he took deep breaths to steady himself, he felt his stitches pulling.  It could always be a trap – maybe the people threatening him learned about your love of astronomy.  Anything was possible.  If it was a trap though, he’d face it as bravely as he could.

 

It wasn’t a trap.  When he went into Callier’s office, her receptionist wasn’t there, and neither was the ADA.  Standing near the window, gazing out at Columbus Park, was you.  The lights were off, and he could just make you out in the dim morning light.

 

“Good morning,” he said quietly.  He shut the door behind him and stood on the other side of the desk.

 

You didn’t bother with formalities.  “We have about twenty minutes,” you said, your voice low.  “My partner is supposed to meet me here to see Niles about a separate case.  If anyone asks, we did not see each other.”  You turned to face him, then stood ram-rod straight across the desk from him.  Your face was backlit by the window and unreadable.

 

Barba shook his head.  “You don’t trust your partner?”

 

“I don’t trust anyone right now,” you replied.  “Least of all you.  But Callier is a good person, and far enough away from all this.  She agreed to make her office empty for us this morning and to keep it all quiet.”

 

Barba winced at the insinuation, and you continued.  “Hannah called us off your case and it’s going cold.”  You handed him a photo.  “Do you know this man?”

 

He looked it over.  It was an average looking, middle-aged white guy.  Dark hair, tanned skin.  A mealy, pinched mouth.  “I don’t think so.  Is he the guy that attacked me?”  He handed it back to you, and you slid it into a folder and placed it back in your messenger bag.

 

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” you replied.  “What are your plans for today?”

 

“I’m in court at eleven for an arraignment,” he said.  “Then back to my office for the rest of the day.”

 

“You should have Liv or someone from SVU, someone you trust, escort you today.  Just to be safe.” 

 

He nodded.  “Liv will be at the arraignment.  I’ll talk to her.”

 

“Good.”  You smoothed your jacket along your front, then looked up at him.  “Why didn’t you tell me that I was being threatened too?”

 

He shifted his eyes down to Callier’s desk.  “You had a lot going on,” he said softly.  “I didn’t want to worry you needlessly.”

 

He heard you scoff, but you didn’t say anything.  You glanced down at your watch and sighed.  “I should go.  Becker usually runs late but I don’t want to take the chance that he gets here early.  Wait here five minutes after I leave, then you can go.”

 

You stepped around the desk, giving him a wide berth, but you were close enough for him to get a hint of your perfume anyway.  He felt a million memories flood back to him, and he had to blink back the sudden tears that sprang to his eyes.

 

“Why didn’t you take this Rollins?” he asked.  His voice was rough with emotion.

 

You paused by the door and half-turned to face him.  “Because I’m investigating this on my own now, off the clock and without cover from NYPD.  I don’t want Amanda to get in trouble.  She’s not a part of…this.”  You gestured between the two of you, your voice lilting in disdain at the last word.  With that, you opened the door a fraction, slid out, and shut it behind you.

 

* * *

 

You and Becker met with Niles, then headed back to Major Case.  You knew that Barba recognizing Mancini would be a long-shot, but you had to try.  When you got back to your desk, you opened the Human Resources system, making the window as small as you could on your screen.  As a sergeant, you had access to all of the detectives’ jackets in Major Case.  You pulled up Mancini and read through his file.

 

Nothing outstanding.  An average clearance record.  Barely passed his marksmanship course.  Middle of the pack at the academy.  One complaint from a former supervisor of harassing a female technician.  Apparently he liked off-color jokes.  Otherwise, he appeared clean.

 

You closed out the system and tapped your pen against your teeth, thinking.  It could just be a coincidence, but you didn’t really believe in coincidences.  What were the odds that his prints just happened to turn up near the crime scene?

 

He also was quick to try and divert you from the Barba case altogether, chiming in about how you dated the ADA and how it was a waste of resources to investigate it at all.  You wondered how Mancini knew you’d dated Barba.  NYPD was a cesspool of gossip, but Becker hadn’t known…. or else, he was lying too.  You felt your head spinning with a million conspiracy theories.  You had felt hinky since you talked to the technician the day before.

 

You went to the bathroom, locking the door behind you.  You ran cold water over the pulse points in your wrists, then daubed your temples too.  Your face was flushed with agitation.  You pulled out your phone, thought for a minute, then searched for Carl Mancini on social media.

 

He had a Facebook page that was mostly bare.  He seemed to follow the Jets and the Islanders, and his relationship status shifted from “married” to “single” at one point.  There were a few photos:  him with a pair of sullen looking teenagers, him in sunglasses with a beer, him with his arms around a dark-haired woman.

 

You looked at the last photo closer.  The woman looked familiar.  The caption said “no one’s got your back like family.”  You clicked on it and saw that Mancini had been tagged in it.  By the woman.  How did you know her?  You clicked on the name - Louise Campesi.

 

“Oh shit,” you whispered.  Louise Campesi, the detective from the 27th precinct.  The one you’d worked with a handful of times on cases in SVU when they overlapped into her jurisdiction. 

 

The one who unloaded her gun into an unarmed man, Terrence Reynolds.  The one indicted for manslaughter and facing down a maximum sentence of twenty-five years in prison.

 

The one indicted because of Barba’s grand jury.

 

“Shit!’ you whispered again, leaving the bathroom and running back to the bullpen.

 

Becker was sitting at his desk.  “Hey, kid.  Mancini was looking for you.  He just stormed out of here.”

 

You looked around and started to ask but caught sight of the technician from the other day.  He waved at you and called out, “Hey, Sarge.”  He walked over and stood between your desk and Becker’s.  “I had to drop off a file for Mancini.  I slipped up and told him about his prints.  Did I ruin the prank?”

 

Your stomach dropped to the floor.  You made a snap decision.  “Becker, we need to go now,” you told him.  “I’ll explain in the car.”  To your partner’s credit, he didn’t question you – he just stood up and grabbed his coat and keys.  And to his further credit, he kept up with you as you sprinted for the car.

 

“Drive to the courthouse,” you ordered.  “Lights, no sirens.  Unless you need to run a light.  We need to get there fast.”

 

While he sped towards your destination, you called Barba.  He didn’t pick up.  You cursed and looked up – you were a block away from the courthouse.  You dialed Liv, and she answered just as Becker pulled in front of the steps.  You got out, sprinting up them two at a time. 

 

“Liv, I need you to secure Barba,” you shouted into the phone.  Between your hammering heart and the jostling of your phone against your ear as you ran, you barely made out her answer.

 

“I just left him at the courthouse,” she said.  “A detective came by, looking for him.  Said you sent him, that you had an update on his case.”   

 

“Shit,” you whispered, shoving the phone into your pocket as you yanked a door open to the courthouse.  You paused a moment, swiveling your head left and right, then caught a sight out of the corner of your eye.  It looked like Barba, being hustled into another corridor by a man.  A tall one, kind of hunched over like a buzzard.  Mancini.  You ran after them.

 

* * *

 

Barba had hung back after the arraignment hearing, nodding at Liv.  She went out ahead of him, presumably to wait for him.  But when he left the emptying room, she was nowhere to be found.  Instead, a tall man was waiting for him.

 

“Barba,” he said.  “Y/L/N sent me.  We have an update on your case.”

 

Barba started to nod, then did a double-take.  It was the man from the photo you had showed him that morning.  Before he could react though, the man took a step towards him, pressing the muzzle of his gun into his side.  “Say a word and I’ll kill you right here,” he muttered. 

 

Barba could only nod and allow himself to be led around a corner, towards the bank of elevators.  Luckily, the courthouse was pretty empty for a Friday.  At least there wouldn’t be many people around to witness him bleeding out onto the marble floor. 

 

His legs felt shaky, and the muzzle of the gun was buried in his back, digging painfully between two of his ribs.  He didn’t know the guy leading him to his death, but he knew that you were on the trail.  The man might kill him, but he wouldn’t get away with it.  That had to count for something.

 

All told, he felt pretty calm.  Resigned, almost.  He just wished he could see you one last time.  He had seen you just that morning, but…one last time.  He closed his eyes and imagined your face, all the times he’d seen it, before he broke your heart.  You, smirking at him across his desk at work.  Smiling up at him as you lay in his arms.  You, fast asleep, your face peaceful and nestled against him.  He felt the man stop him front of the elevators and heard him hitting the button.  Then Barba opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder.  And saw you.

 

Your face was twisted in furious anger, and you yelled for the man to stop.  He turned and saw you and time slowed down.

 

The man pulled his gun from Barba’s ribs and aimed at you.  Barba shoved him, and the shot went wide, firing near his ear and deafening him with a sudden, high-pitched whine as it ricocheted off the wall.  He felt the wound on his chest tear, and he was dealt a ringing blow when the man reared back and punched Barba in the face.  He felt to a knee, stunned.

 

Barba looked up at the man.  He saw his mouth moving but couldn’t hear what he was saying for the ringing in his ears and the blood roaring in his head.  You were still coming at him, your hand reaching for your own gun, but the man beat you.  He raised his own piece and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession.  You were blown back by the impact, knocked off your feet and onto your back.  Barba tried to cry out to you, but he felt like he was moving through molasses.

 

The shooter started to turn towards him, and Barba wished he would just finish him off so that he could follow you on the heels of whatever came next after this life, but two more shots rang out.  The man crumpled against the door of the elevator, a rill of blood trickling from his mouth.  Barba looked down the hallway and saw Becker, lowering his own piece.  Behind him, court officers rushing to secure the scene.  And behind them, out of breath from a run back to the courthouse, Liv.

 

Barba tried to move towards you, but your partner beat him.  The ringing in Barba’s ears lessened and he could just make out what the older man was saying as he knelt over your body, your feet scrabbling along the marble floor.

 

“Just breathe, kid,” he was saying.  “Relax and breathe.  You’re gonna be okay.” 

 

A moment later, paramedics were on the scene.  For the second time in his life, Barba watched them load you onto a gurney and carry you away.  Only this time, it was all his fault.  Exactly what he had tried to avoid.  He watched the paramedics take you out, Becker glued to your side.  Liv came up to him and knelt down beside him.

 

“You okay?” she asked, dazed by the scene she had just ran into.

 

Barba couldn’t answer.  All he could do is hang his head and weep.

 

* * *

 

It’s funny, you would think later.  You had spent all that time flinching and worrying about bullets that never came – and then when two were actually coming for you, you charged straight into them.

 

You’d also think later that you needed to thank Dr. Warren, for blessing your short-term solution of just wearing your bulletproof vest whenever you felt like it.  You’d felt hinky since Barba had been mugged, pretty much wearing your vest every day.  It was like the stars aligned, keeping you alive.

 

So when Barba shoved Mancini, sending the first bullet shearing off into a wall, you kept charging, and took the next two right into the vest. 

 

Did it hurt?  Not at first.  First, you were thrown from your feet, cracking your head on the hard marble floor.  Thank god I have a hard head, you thought dimly.  Then you panicked, unable to pull in a breath.  The bullets had knocked the wind out of you, and you couldn’t breathe.  Your mouth gaped like a fish drowning on dry land.  Then Becker’s face, florid from the jog from the car to the courthouse, swam into your vision.

 

“Just breathe, kid,” he was saying.  He pulled the lapels of your jacket away gingerly, expecting the worst.  He sagged in relief to see your vest and the two bullets mushroomed into the Kevlar fibers.  “Relax and breathe.  You’re gonna be okay.”   

 

You were slid onto a board and lifted onto a gurney, and once an oxygen mask was eased over your face and you were able to breathe – _that’s_ when it started to hurt.  A lot.

 

* * *

 

Barba waited with Liv and the rest of the detectives from SVU in the hospital waiting room.  He’d had his own stop at the E.R. to re-stitch his torn wound, and now he sat.  Waiting for your new partner to walk through the double doors to give them the bad news.

 

Liv reached out and patted his hand.  “She’s tough,” she said, her voice low.  “And I didn’t see any blood.”

 

Barba shook his head.  “I saw her get hit, twice.  There’s no way anyone could…” He choked on the rest of the sentiment, and Liv grasped his hand.

 

Eventually, Becker came through those double doors.  He looked exhausted and wrung out, but he had a slight smile on his face.

 

“She’ll be okay.  She was wearing her vest,” he said, shaking his head.  “She started wearing it all the time.  Guys in the precinct gave her a hard time.”  He shook his head again.  “It’s like she was expecting it.”

 

“What the hell happened out there?” Liv asked.  “I got a panicked call from her…”

 

Becker raised his hands in a gesture of defeat.  “No idea.  She told me to drive to the courthouse, so I did.  She hopped out and ran in, I followed.  The next thing I know, I hear shots.  I turned long enough to see Detective Mancini point his piece at this one…” He gestured at Barba.  “…and I fired.”

 

“Might want to save that for your delegate,” Fin cut in.

 

“It was a good shot,” Becker retorted.  “Mancini had just fired three shots, and two found their way into my partner.”

 

“IAB might not see it that way,” Rollins added. 

 

Becker scoffed at her.  “Fuck IAB then.  I stopped a rogue cop from killing an ADA and a fellow officer.”  Rollins grinned at him.

 

“So she’s okay?” Barba asked from his seat.  His legs had no strength to them.  He looked up at your partner.

 

“She will be,” the older man repeated.  “She took one to the side and one to the chest.  Has a bruised liver and a deep tissue contusion on her chest.  She cracked her head when she fell too.  Has a slight concussion.”  He looked around the waiting room.  “She can have visitors, but I told her not to talk to anyone until her delegate or a lawyer gets here.”

 

“But she’s okay?” Rollins asked again.  Barba looked over at the petite detective and realized that he wasn’t the only one hurting.  Rollins face was pale and drawn, and her hair was disheveled from running her hands through it nervously.

 

Becker nodded.  “She’s okay.  She just needs to rest.”  He sighed and sat down heavily onto one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room.  “She’ll need her strength for the shitstorm that comes next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Does the courthouse have an underground garage? In this universe, yes it does. Does the NYPD fingerprint its own? In this universe, yes (which is in line with some police departments, who fingerprint their own employees – usually due to overtime violations).


	22. Chapter 22

Becker looked out for you, and you regretted ever thinking that he might be part of some shadowy NYPD conspiracy. He kept the wolves at bay until your union rep came.  He put Rita Calhoun on retainer.  It seemed excessive at first.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” your partner asked.  His usually jolly countenance was wracked with disappointment and hurt.  “I would have backed your play.”

 

You tried to explain the paranoia that had consumed you in those final few days.  He nodded along, understanding.

 

“I’ll tell IAB that we were investigating it together…” he said, but you interrupted him.

 

“Absolutely not.  This was me working alone.”  You were stern, but then you softened.  “You’re close to retirement age.  I’ve never pulled rank on you, Martin, but I am now.  Stand down and do not lie to IAB.  That’s an order.”

 

The internal investigation revealed a string of malfeasance across several agencies.  Mancini, as Louise Campesi’s brother, was the lynchpin.  The man who had originally threatened Barba at the courthouse a million years ago?  A known criminal that Mancini had arrested many times throughout his career. The investigation also revealed a court officer, a security guard at the D.A.’s office, and two precinct cops.

 

The investigation also revealed that you had used police resources against the orders of your captain.  IAB wanted to make an example of you, but between your union and Calhoun, the discipline against you was mild.  A few weeks of paid administrative leave, then desk duty. 

 

It didn’t matter.  You were done.

 

Your heart made the decision when those two slugs nailed you at the courthouse.  It only took your brain a few weeks to agree.  You turned in your notice, then you turned in your badge and gun.

 

Only Liv tried to talk you out of it. “Think about all the good you’ve done,” she had said.  “All the good you can still do.”  You were at her place, sipping wine and talking quietly while Noah slept in the next room.  The difference between you and Liv was never starker than that moment.  Liv was a career cop who would probably die at her desk doing CommStats when she was ninety.  You had just fell into law enforcement out of some need to protect those that needed it…. but now you were starting to realize that you could help people without needing a shield.

 

“The shooting at Sacred Heart, then Nick.  Then Mike. Now I’ve been shot, and Barba nearly died too,” you replied.  “I barely sleep anymore; I’m terrified of any loud noises.”  You took another sip of wine.  “And I lost any faith I had in NYPD.  It’s time to hang it up.”

 

“What are you going to do next?”

 

You leaned against the back of the couch and sighed.  “I’m not sure.  I have enough money saved up to last me a while.  I’m going to travel for a little bit before I decide.  I’ve never taken a vacation, you know.”  You smiled a bit.  “Amanda is letting me borrow her car.  I’m going to drive down the coast.”

 

You had lunch with Becker before you left. 

 

“I have a new partner,” he complained around bites of pastrami.  “He thinks he’s in one of those awful police shows on TV.  Always whipping his sunglasses on and off like an asshole.”

 

You laughed at the image, and he continued.  “Be safe, kid.  And come see me when you’re back.” 

 

Early on a Saturday morning, you went to Amanda’s apartment with your plants – a fichus and a rubber plant you’d had since college.  She was going to keep them until you got back, whenever that was.  You sat the planters on her table, and she handed you her car keys.

 

“I really appreciate this,” you said, pocketing them.  You reached down and scratched Frannie behind her ears as she sat on your foot and nudged you for more pettings.

 

Amanda jostled Jesse against her chest – the baby was getting big and barely fit in your tiny friend’s arms anymore. “It’s a selfish move on my part,” she replied.  “If you borrow my car, you have to come back to New York eventually.”

 

“I’d come back anyway,” you teased. “That rubber plant is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

 

Her smile slipped a little.  “Have you talked to Barba?”

 

You focused on Frannie, scratching her head and not looking at Amanda.  “Not since the morning of the shooting,” you said.  You looked up and saw her watching you.  You sighed.

 

“Let’s shelve any thoughts you have about that until I get back,” you continued.  “I need a little time just for myself.”

 

You took Route 1 south.  You stopped in D.C. for a bit to see your old teammates from the FBI and to do all of the touristy stuff you never did while you lived there.  You wound your way through Virginia, then left the highway to stick to the Carolina coasts. 

 

To save money, you spent some nights under the stars, sleeping in the car with the seat reclined back.  The money you saved got spent on food:  low country boils, fresh crab, buttery grits. Barbequed chicken, since you didn’t eat pork.  You ate your body weight in biscuits drizzled in honey.  Fried green tomatoes, fried chicken, fried catfish dredged through cornmeal.  Cobblers and deep dish pies of every conceivable variety. 

 

The weight you put on was burned off on exploring.  You hiked off-the-path trails, explored battlefields, wandered around offbeat museums. You ran along the beach at dawn, watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. 

 

You’d lived your entire life in the United States but never got to see any of it beyond the terrible and especially heinous crimes you used to investigate.  Now you were spending time with regular, normal people.  Drinking a beer over a crawfish platter at a local dive bar.  Strolling around a charming sweet potato festival.  And once, pulled off on the side of the road, helping a stranded woman change a flat tire, the two of you taking turns to loosen the impossibly tight lug nuts.

 

Then you turned around and made your way home.

 

* * *

 

Barba lived in a sort of purgatory. His life resumed a steady state, much like it had been before he met you.  It was all just…greyer.

 

He was grateful every moment that you were alive and as safe as you could be.  He missed you terribly.  He was wracked with guilt that, despite all of his efforts, you had still been shot because of him.  He had hurt you for nothing.  But you were alive.  The scales were balanced, all that pain an acceptable price to pay for your life.

 

He went to work, he went home.  His knife slash healed, his concussion healed. The shiner faded to a yellowish green, then disappeared.  He slept under your star-light.  He kept your perfume nearby, even if it only sort of smelled like you.  He looked at the only picture he had of you - the one from your commendation ceremony in the paper – multiple times a day.  When he had quiet moments at work, or when he lay in bed wracked by insomnia, he replayed every moment he had spent with you. Wishing he had more, grateful for the ones he had gotten.

 

* * *

 

Amanda missed you too.  She missed your girls’ nights together, watching (her) terrible reality shows and (your) terrible movies.  The laughing, the snarking about the men you knew in the NYPD, the more serious talks about your respective awful childhoods. 

 

She was happy to lend you her car, but she had been dead serious when she admitted that it was because she wanted you to come back.  You were like a sister to her and an aunt to Jesse.  And a second mom to Frannie.

 

She ran into Barba one day after work. The ADA looked ten years older than he really was; his face was drawn, and he’d dropped weight again.  Amanda watched him nurse a scotch, clearly not his first of the evening, picking at the plate in front of him.  She generally didn’t have much sympathy for men when they acted stupid – and Barba had definitely won the annual award in that category – but she felt bad for him.  He had been right:  he hurt you, but he hurt himself worse in the process.  And he _had_ been trying to keep you safe. The execution had been terrible, but the intent came from a place of true love.

 

Amanda sat down beside him and ordered a beer, nodding at him in greeting.  He nodded back, and the two exchanged small talk about the current case they were working on.  His eyes were bleary with booze.  She hadn’t seen such a pathetic specimen since the day her daddy gambled away all the mortgage money one month and her momma had to get a loan from relatives. She decided to throw Barba a bone.

 

“Y/F/N is on her way back to the city,” she said, nonchalant.  She pretended not to notice the glimmer of hope that sparked in his face.  His hand trembled as he took another sip of his scotch.

 

“How is she?” he asked.

 

“Judging by her social media, probably a couple pounds heavier,” she laughed.  “Most of her pictures from her trip are of food.”

 

Barba smiled sadly and polished off the rest of his drink.  He signaled to the bartender for another.

 

“I should’ve gotten more pictures of her – of us – when I was with her,” he said, so quietly that Amanda almost missed the words.  “I only have one picture, from the newspaper.  And two shaky videos of her at karaoke.”  She didn’t know how to respond, so they sat in silence as Amanda finished her beer and paid for it.  She stood up to leave, and hesitated before laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Take care of yourself, Barba,” she said.  He nodded and took another drink of scotch.

 

When Amanda got home, she played with Jesse, then bathed her and put her to bed.  Then she scrolled through her own photo feed until she found a great picture of you from one of your nights out together.  Your hair was down, and you were grinning broadly at the camera. You were in a shirt that showed a tasteful amount of cleavage, which probably didn’t hurt either.

 

Amanda sent it to Barba.  “It’s not much,” the accompanying text said.  “But it’s better than nothing.”

 

She wanted you to be happy, and she knew how happy you’d been with Barba.  Besides, if she could help nudge the two of you back together, you might forgive her for killing both of the plants you left in her care.  She glanced over at where they stood, their leaves yellowed and drooping and winced. 

 

* * *

 

When you got back to the city, you met up with Becker, as promised.  He took you to lunch again, to the same deli he ate at for most of his career.

 

“You give any thought to what you’re going to do next?” he asked.

 

You thought about it.  “Maybe go back to school,” you said.  “I thought about getting my private investigator license in the meantime.  To get some work.”

 

Becker’s eyes lit up.  “That’s a great idea.”  He polished off his sandwich while he gave you all the NYPD gossip. 

 

When you went to leave, he pulled you into an awkward hug.  “I’m glad you’re back, kid.”  You smiled. You were glad too.

 

Two days later, he called you to meet for a beer after work.  When you met him at the bar, he was already there.  He had an envelope on the chipped wooden bar, and when you sat beside him, he slid it over to you.

 

“What’s this?” you asked, puzzled.

 

“Consider it a gift for your retirement from NYPD,” he said.  You opened the envelope.  Inside was a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it.  And a check, written out to you, from Becker.  For five thousand dollars.

 

“What’s this?” you asked again. “I can’t take this.”

 

He sat his beer glass down with a thud. “You can take it.  Or, consider it an interest free loan.  Or a payment from an investor in your new enterprise.”  You stared at the check, and he continued.

 

“Look, kid.  I can spare the money to help you get set up.  It’ll cover your P.I. application and insurance, and it’ll give some leftover.  Maybe set up a nice website, get a good camera.”  He lifted his glass and took a drink.  “The name on the paper is my first partner.  He got hit by a car and had to leave the force.  We keep in touch.  He’s a P.I., and he has more work than he can handle.  He can kick you some cases until you’re up and running.”

 

You looked at him, blinking back tears. He continued.

 

“NYPD has been my life.  I never married or had children.  My parents are gone, and I have one brother in Tacoma that I talk to once a year.  Sometimes you gotta make your own family.”  He cleared his throat.  “Maybe if my life had taken a different path, I would have had a daughter like you. Smart like me, pain in the ass like your mother.”

 

You laughed and wiped at the tear that tricked down the side of your nose.  “I would have been lucky to have a dad like you.”

 

He reached out and clapped you across the back, gentle for the first time.  “Well, you got me now.  Take the money, get set up, go catch cheating husbands and deadbeat dads.”

 

You looked down at the check.  “At best, this is a loan,” you finally said when you could talk again.  “I’ll pay you back before you retire.  Five thousand goes a long way on a boat.  You can get another sail or mast or something.”  Becker laughed. 

 

When you sent in your P.I. application, you weren’t allowed to name your agency after yourself.  You called it Becker Investigations.  And, in the future, when clients asked about the difference between the name of the agency and your own last name, you simply explained that Becker was your father’s name.

 

Summer turned into autumn.  You started getting clients, first from Becker’s contact, then on your own.  It was a mixture of steady income work – those cheating spouses and fathers skipping out on child support – and some bigger cases.  Things like families looking for missing persons.  Once your reputation got out there, you took a few cases of potential wrongful convictions. 

 

You thought about Barba every day, but the pain had faded into a sort of melancholia.  You missed him, but it was a part of your life that had ended.  You still taught your self-defense class in the Bronx, and your stomach always did a little flip-flop when you passed Jerome Avenue.  You wondered how Catalina and Lucia were doing.  You wondered how Barba was doing.  Amanda mentioned him in passing sometimes, but you usually changed the subject.

 

You wondered if he ever thought about you.

 

You babysat Noah sometimes when Liv needed an extra pair of hands and Lucy wasn’t available.  You grabbed a beer now and then with Carisi, and you went to video game conventions with Fin.  You had lunch or dinner with Becker at least once a week, and he usually bent your ear about some case he was working.

 

You hung out with Amanda, helping babysit Jesse and Frannie when work was chaotic for her.  One night in October, you had just gotten Jesse down for bed and was settling into Amanda’s couch when she came in, disheveled from a nightmare day at work.  You felt sympathetic, but you didn’t miss SVU at all.  She grabbed two beers, popped the caps, and handed one to you before joining you.

 

“I had to run my testimony with Barba at the courthouse,” she said, sighing heavily.  “He threw every possible question that the defense might come up with.”

 

You focused on the bottle in your hand, peeling at the corner of the label.  You could feel Amanda watching you.  The question was on the tip of your tongue, but you didn’t have to ask it. 

 

“He misses you,” she said.  You snorted at her, but she turned to face you and continued.  “He’s not himself anymore.”

 

“If he misses me, why haven’t I heard from him?” you retorted. 

 

She shook her head sadly.  “He feels guilty.  You have to know that he is afraid to face you.  He knows how badly he hurt you but…” She trailed off for a moment.  “…but he thought he was protecting you.”

 

“He did a fantastic job.  I got shot twice.”

 

Amanda took a swig of beer.  “I know.  He wasn’t thinking clearly.  Can you blame him?  He was terrified of losing you.”

 

“He broke up with me.”

 

“I know,” she repeated.  “But he would have rather broken up with you than have you die because of him.  And then, when you got shot – right in front of him, I might add – it broke him.”

 

You both sat quietly, drinking your beers.  You felt Amanda stirring up a lot of feelings you had shoved below the surface. Finally, she spoke up again.

 

“What’s that thing you’re always saying?” she asked.

 

“That heels were invented by men to make it easier to catch women?” you joked.

 

“Ha,” she replied without mirth. “No, the bit about reaching out for help.  Maybe Barba needs to take someone’s hand.  Maybe you should reach out.”

 

“Hmm,” was all you said.  But it made you think, and you spent a long night thinking before you finally fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

October 24thwas like any other day.  Barba’s mother called him early in the morning to wish him a happy birthday, but otherwise, it was just another day.  He spent the morning in arraignment, then went back to his office. Carmen was out on her lunch break, so it was quiet.  He figured he could catch up on a few law review articles he had marked to read when he had some downtime.

 

He shrugged out of his jacket and walked over to his desk.  Sitting on it was a white box with a bow on it, elaborate curls of ribbon spilling over the sides.  There was an envelope underneath.

 

For a moment, his mind stupidly wandered to which threat it could be – a bomb, anthrax, a boxed rattlesnake ready to spring out at him.  But the threats had ended once Mancini was killed, and it had been months since that happened. 

 

He picked up the envelope, which was blank across the face.  He slid a small card out and opened it.  Under the simple typed text that read “Happy Birthday,” he saw your handwriting.  His heart leapt into his throat.  It read:

 

_Congratulations on another 365.25 days around our G-type main sequence star.*_

_(* A yellow dwarf)_

_(Also, I finally figured out how to curl ribbons.)_

 

It was signed by you.

 

When he opened the box, there was a small cake inside.  It was chocolate, and when he smelled it, he caught the scent of both whiskey and coffee. His two favorite foods groups, you had joked a million years ago. 

 

Before he could change his mind, he picked up his phone to text you.  His finger hovered over the keypad, but then he thought better of it.  He pulled up your number and called you instead.

 

You picked up on the third ring, sounding a bit out of breath and far away.  “Hello?”

 

Barba took a deep breath.  “It’s me…Barba,” he said.

 

“Hold on,” you said.  He heard a click, then the distant, tinny quality went away and your voice was there, loud and clear.  It made his heart leap again.  “Barba. Hi.”

 

“I just wanted to thank you for the gift,” he said.  He looked the box over for a second.  “Where’s it from?”

 

You laughed on the line, making him smile at the sound.  “It’s from my kitchen.”

 

There was a pause before Barba could respond.  “You baked this yourself?”

 

“Well, sure,” you said.  “But don’t get emotional about it.  It’s New York law that I was supposed to bake for you. I figured the statute of limitations wasn’t up on it yet.”  There was silence on the line before you added, “Consider it restitution for when we dated.”

 

He felt a little pang at your use of the past tense, but he played along.  He wanted to keep you on the line and never stop talking to you.  “I can see if there’s any outstanding warrants…”

 

You cut him off.  “Doesn’t matter.  I live outside the law these days.  I don’t recognize the authority of the district attorney’s office anymore.”

 

It made him laugh, and he could hear you chuckling over the line at his own laughter. 

 

“I need to get going,” you continued. “But I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.  And enjoy the cake.”

 

There were a million things he wanted to say to you – that he was sorry, that he missed you, that he loved you. Instead, he simply replied, “thank you, Y/F/N.”

 

Your voice on the line was soft. “You’re welcome, Rafael.”  Then the connection was cut.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, you were in family court, testifying in a child custody case that had gotten ugly.  The mother’s parents had hired you to gather information on their grandson, and you had stacks of photographs and witness testimony proving that the child’s parents were unfit.  They often left the boy alone to go on long benders – and that was the least of it.  You breathed a sigh of relief when the judge granted emergency custody to the grandparents.

 

The family court building was only two blocks away from 1 Hogan Place, and it was late in the afternoon.  In your last appointment with Dr. Warren, she had encouraged you to revisit the scene of your shooting to help clarify it in your mind and perhaps give some closure.  You still woke up sometimes, unable to breath and gasping for air, and she thought that facing it might help.

 

You made your way over slowly, flashing your P.I. card at the security guard.  You hadn’t been in the courthouse since that day, and your heart was racing as you remembered the sprint up the steps and down the corridor to the elevator bank.  You took deep breaths as you came upon the scene.  You didn’t remember much, honestly – just the blood rushing in your ears as you ran, and the flash of both Barba’s face and Mancini’s as they turned to face you.  Then you remember the feeling of getting hit by a truck, falling backwards, and hitting your head.  Then – nothing.

 

You weren’t sure how long you stood there.  People walked past you, getting onto the elevators and getting off of them.  You just stood there and let the feelings wash over you.  The fear, the regret, the rising panic.  You took deep breaths and gripped the strap of your messenger bag until your knuckles were white.

 

A voice broke your reverie. “Y/F/N?”  You looked up.  It was Barba.

 

He looked as terrible as you felt in that moment.  His suit, usually tailored to a millimeter of perfection, hung off of him.  He’d lost weight – a lot of it.  His face was strained and he had dark circles under his eyes. His green eyes were bright though, and he was looking at you with an indecipherable expression.

 

“Hey,” you said, startled.  “My therapist recommended this.”  You gestured to the hallway in general, then stupidly added, “sorry.”

 

He shook his head at you.  “Don’t apologize.” 

 

You took a deep breath and gave a weak laugh.  “I’m not sure what I was expecting.  Body shapes outlined in chalk, maybe.  Or yellow police tape still up.”

 

He took two steps over to the wall and pointed.  “There’s this.  They dug the bullet out for ballistics, but they haven’t fixed it yet.” 

 

You joined him and looked at it, prodded the ragged bullet hole in the wood paneling.  “I remember that,” you said, the memory returning.  “Mancini was aiming at me and you shoved him.  Sent the shot wide.”

 

Barba nodded but didn’t reply. The two of you just stood there a moment, looking at the scarred paneling in silence.  You could feel him looking at you, but you were afraid if you made eye contact, you’d throw your arms around him and never want to let go. It reminded you of the last time you hugged him – when he stood, stiff as a sentinel in your arms, and then pushed you away and broke up with you. 

 

You cleared your throat.  “Well, I should….” You started to say, but he talked over you.

 

“That was the worse day of my life,” he said softly.  His voice sounded ragged.  “I should have…” He trailed off, took a deep breath.  “I should have told you.  About the threats.  I replay it a million times a day, how I should have handled it differently.”

 

You looked at him.  His head was bent, and he was staring at the floor. “How would you have handled it differently?  In your ideal scenario?”

 

He looked up at you, and his green eyes were shiny with tears.  “I would have never broken up with you.  I would have told you about the threats.  I would have used all of my powers of persuasion to convince you to leave the NYPD, and I would have left the DA’s office, and we would have moved to another city and just started over.”

 

You felt like you’d been punched in the gut, but you covered it up with a watery laugh.  “Your powers of persuasion aren’t _that_ good,” you joked weakly.

 

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “No,” he agreed.  “They aren’t.  But maybe I could convince you to get a drink with me?  Or dinner?”  His smiled faded. 

 

You pretended to think about it. You finally nodded.

 

* * *

 

He wanted to put his hand on your back as he led you out of the courthouse, but he refrained.  He had to take this slowly.  The two of your walked out to the street, and he tried to calm his shaking fingers as he ordered a car.

 

You both stood on the curb, waiting for the car, neither talking.  It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence exactly, but there was an underlying current of tension.  If you hadn’t reached out to him on his birthday, he would have dodged you at the courthouse when he saw you wander in.  But you _had_ reached out, so he followed you to see where you were going.  You had looked dazed as you stood in the spot where you’d be shot. 

 

He stood a step or two away from you, just watching you.  Your hair was growing back out, and you were wearing it down with the sides swept up in a silver clip.  Under your black overcoat, he could just make out a tailored jacket over a blue button-down shirt.  You wore a pencil skirt that fit you perfectly, along with a pair of black ballet flats.  You must have been testifying or at the courthouse on other official business.

 

Rollins, of all people, kept him updated, dropping little comments about what and how you were doing.  She told him about your PI work.  She told him about your nights out with her, how you took guys’ numbers but then tossed them away later without calling them.  She told him about how you missed him, even if you did seem to be doing better since the shooting.

 

The car pulled up and you both climbed in.  Barba gave the address and caught your faint smile. 

 

“MacNair’s again?” you asked. “It’s like déjà vu.”

 

“It is,” he agreed.  He looked down and saw your hands fidgeting with your messenger bag, but he resisted the urge to still them with his own.  He felt practically electrified to be sitting so close to you.  He could just make out your scent.

 

The ride was a short one.  You both climbed out of the car and made your way to a booth in the back of the pub.  Once you were settled in, you placed your orders and sat in a moment of awkward silence.  You sat across from him, your hands folded placidly in front of you, looking infinitely cooler than he felt. 

 

“So,” you said, finally.

 

“How have you been?” he asked.

 

“I’ve been well.  How have you been?”

 

He considered the answer.  He couldn’t think of a satisfactory one, so he just shrugged.

 

The waitress brought your drinks over, and you each took a grateful gulp to steady your jangly nerves.  Over the rim of his glass, he watched you take a sip of your daiquiri, your hand trembling just a bit.  You were nervous too.

 

The two of you worked through small talk:  the cooling weather, the local sport teams that neither of you followed.  Then, when your food came out, the conversation shifted to work.  Barba’s cases, SVU after you left.  Your PI work. You told him a bit about the case you had just testified at. 

 

Once the food was picked over and the plates were cleared, another round of drinks.  The conversation slipped into personal lives, circling closer and closer to the topic that sat between you like a black hole.  You asked him about Lucia and Catalina; he asked about your road trip.  He wanted to ask if you were seeing anyone.  He saw you start to open your mouth to say something, then watched you snap it shut before the words came out.

 

Finally, the conversation petered out again and was replaced by that awkward silence.  He watched you toy with the lime garnish, peeling the rind away from the fruit.  He took a deep breath.

 

“Can we go somewhere to talk? Really talk?” he asked.  His voice had a pleading edge to it but he didn’t care.

 

“Aren’t we really talking now?” you replied, you mouth twisted into a smirk.

 

“We could go back to my place,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him, so he rushed to continue.  “Not for… _that_.  I want to…”

 

You didn’t let him finish. “Fine,” you said.  “But you’re paying for my taxi ride back to my place afterwards.  I’m not taking the subway in a skirt.”  You smiled to yourself, probably remembering the cases you handled with perverts on public transit.

 

“Deal,” he agreed.

 

* * *

 

The elevator ride up from the lobby to Barba’s apartment was torturous.  You weren’t sure what he wanted to talk about, if he was going to try and apologize for how he broke up with you.  You stomach roiled with anxiety.  You remembered the last time you were here.  You made a fist with your hand, digging your fingernails into the palm to help focus yourself.

 

He unlocked his door and motioned for you to lead the way, and it hit you like a ton of bricks.

 

You had pushed down the entire breakup, burying it underneath the new assignment at Major Case and then the investigation into Mancini, and then your quitting NYPD and striking out on your own. You touched on it lightly at therapy sometimes – it was further fodder for your abandonment issues – but the shooting and your PTSD always took center stage.  And you talked about it with Amanda, but at a very surface level.

 

Now it all came rushing back.  You were standing in the entryway of his apartment, exactly where he had flung those awful words at you.  That you weren’t impressive.  That you would hold him back.  That you weren’t enough.

 

You stifled back a sob that threatened to tear out of you, and you turned to flee, but he caught you in his arms, pulling you into his iron embrace.  You wanted to dissolve into him but you didn’t – you struggled for a moment, then your self-defense training kicked in.  You dropped low a bit and broke his hold, making him stagger back a step while you backed away from him.

 

“How dare you,” you hissed at him. “Don’t touch me.”

 

His face was pure anguish, and he reached out a hand to you.  “I’m sorry…”

 

You cut him off, your mouth finally spilling all the words that you’d kept locked up since the day of Mike’s funeral. 

 

“How dare you,” you repeated, your voice rising from an angry whisper until you were yelling at him.  “You broke my heart!  You just tore it right out of me and went on with your life like I was nothing!  I saw the pictures in the paper, you and all those women, smiling and happy.  You didn’t even mourn me – you just moved right on like I was nothing.”  You didn’t even try to hide the angry tears that spilled down your burning hot face.

 

He took a step towards you, his hands out and palms up.  You looked at him through the haze and tears and saw that he was tearing up too.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice hoarse.  “I wish I could take it all back, Y/F/N, but I can’t.  I thought I was protecting you.”  He stopped when he was in front of you, his hands still out.  He hesitated, then reached out to pull you gently into his arms again.

 

“I’m not nothing,” you sobbed as you allowed him to enfold you against his chest.  You stood rigid against him for a second, then melted into the hug, wrapping your own arms around him.  He squeezed you so tight that it left you breathless, like he was trying to absorb you into himself.  You could hear his heart pounding, steady and solid under your ear.

 

“You’re not nothing,” he said above you in a choked voice.  “You’re everything.  You’re my everything.”

 

You wept against him, dimly aware of him above you saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again until it sounded like a chant.  He had one arm firmly around your shoulders, pressing you to him, and his other hand stroked the back of your head.  You had missed him so much, missed being held by him, being touched by him.  As your hurt and anger was spent and your crying waned, you felt the tenor between the two of you shift. 

 

He felt it too.  He slid the hand that was stroking your head underneath your sheaf of hair, laying it on the back of your neck.  He dragged his fingertips lightly across your skin, from the base of your hairline to the edge of where your coat collar started.  It made goosebumps form across your skin, and you shuddered against him – but didn’t pull away.

 

You stood stock-still, your own hands splayed across his broad back.  He was tentative at first, but when you didn’t stop him, he grew bolder. He dropped the arm around your back down until it circled your waist.  He pulled you flush against him, and he slid his other hand from the back of your neck to your face.  He cupped your jaw, pushing your head away from his chest until you were gazing up at him. His eyes were a brilliant green, and the look he gave you sent that familiar bolt of desire straight to your core. You were hazily aware that you should leave immediately, that he was only lonely and would only hurt you again. 

 

He searched your face for any sign of hesitation or confusion.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time in a low whisper.  His eyes flicked to your mouth for a split second, and you could feel the need radiating off of him like heat.  “I would do anything…” he added.

 

You cut him off, your mouth taking charge before your brain could get you out of there safely.  “Please,” was all you said.

 

He ghosted his mouth over yours for a moment, then he pressed his lips against yours so lightly that you could barely feel him.  You could feel his desire for you pressed against your hip, apparent even through numerous layers of clothing.  You felt your irritation rise as he kissed you softly, so you pressed back against him. You nipped at his lower lip, sucking on it until he opened his mouth, then you slipping your tongue into his mouth and claimed him.

 

He leaned into the kiss, sliding his tongue against yours and tilting your head to kiss you more fully.  He groaned against you, but pulled away a moment later.

 

“We can slow down,” he said with uncertainty, but you shook your head.  You were a riot of emotion – love and lust, anger and a fragile sort of hope. But you didn’t want to think about any of that in the moment.  You just wanted to fuck him.  The overthinking could come later.

 

You reached down between your bodies and cupped him roughly with your hand, so he scooped you up, bridal-style and carried you into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.  He sat you down on your feet, pushing your coat off of you and then your jacket so that both were pooled on the floor.  He shed his own coat and jacket, tossing them, then sat down on the edge of the bed while you stood in front of him. 

 

You looked down at him.  His face was naked of any sort of artifice – you could see his own riot of emotions playing out there, mirroring your own. But then you looked behind him at his giant, comfortable bed and ugly thoughts started to crowd into your head. You remembered every picture from the social pages, every woman he stood with his arm around.  You pictured him in bed with them:  the tall blonde with the perfect breasts, the petite brunette with the perfect, ultra-white smile.  The woman who was a distant relative of the Astor family, the one who went to Bryn Mawr and ran an NGO.  You glanced over and saw the star-projector on the nightstand.  You imagined Barba and those women in bed together, laughing at you.

 

You closed your eyes and shook your head, trying to will the images away.  You felt Barba take one hand, then the other.  He tugged you closer to him until you were standing between his spread legs, your knees against the edge of the bed.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.  You opened your eyes and looked at him.  He looked worried, his eyebrows knitted in concern.

 

“Not here,” you said.  You tried to pull away from his grasp but he held firm. “Let’s…let’s go back to the couch.”

 

“What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

You shook your head and closed you eyes again.  “I don’t want to…be…where you were with those other women.”  You winced at the pictures in your head of him, naked with some other woman, doing things to her that he used to do to you.

 

“What other women?” he asked gently. He kept you firmly in his grasp, but he rubbed his thumbs in small semi-circles on the backs of your hands in a soothing motion.

 

“The ones after me,” you said. Your voice was small.  You kept your eyes squeezed shut, and you heard Barba take a deep breath.  He pulled you down until you were sitting on his lap, his arms tight around you.  He pressed a kiss to your temple.

 

“Those were photo ops, nothing more,” he murmured against your hair.  “I thought if I got enough pictures out there with different women, the person threatening you would draw their own conclusions.”  You felt the tightness in your chest loosen, and you opened your eyes.

 

He pressed another kiss to you, this one on your cheekbone.  “There was no one after you.”  Another kiss, on the corner of your mouth.  “How could there be?”

 

You turned your head to look at him and saw the truth in his eyes.  You laid a hand along the side of his face, and he leaned into your touch.  “Really?” you asked.  “I just thought…”

 

“I came home after every event alone,” he broke in.  His eyes were boring into yours.  “I went to sleep every night alone.  I slept under your star-light and I pretended you were here.  Pointing out constellations and teasing me.  I replayed every moment we had together. And I wanted more.  I still want more.”  He looked at you hopefully.

 

“I want that too,” you whispered.

 

He took a shaky breath in through his nose and blinked back the tears that were threatening again.  “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking at the last word.

 

You shifted your hand from the side of his face to the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. “I forgive you,” you said, and you pulled him to you. 

 

You kissed him – gentle at first, then with more urgency.  You felt how hard he was underneath you, and it was all too intoxicating – the scent of his cologne and whatever made him smell like him, the faint, familiar taste of scotch on his tongue, the feel of his hands roaming over your body with increasing need. 

 

Your hands moved of their own accord, loosening his tie and slipping his suspenders off of his shoulders, then unbuttoning as much of his shirt as you could from your perch on his lap.  He pulled at your clothes too, unbuttoning your shirt and untucking it from your skirt, then running his warm palms along the bare skin of your belly and around to your back.

 

Finally, he pushed you off of his lap and stood up in front of you, peeling you out of the rest of your clothes. He removed your shirt and your bra, and you could feel him restraining himself from mauling you then and there.

 

“I like this a lot,” he murmured as he unzipped your skirt and pushed it down over your hips.  You kicked off your flats and stepped out of your skirt, leaving you in nothing but your panties.  He swept you back up into his arms and laid you gently on the bed, then stood back up to remove the rest of his clothes.  He was fully naked when he stretched out beside you, his eyes roaming your prone form hungrily.

 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/F/N,” he whispered.  He ran his fingertips from the side of your blushing face, down your neck and your side, until it rested on your hip.  He toyed with the hem of your panties, pushing it down over your hip but stopping to look at your face.  He was searching for either hesitation or encouragement, so you nodded at him. 

 

He pushed your panties down, and you lifted yourself up to help him.  Once they were kicked free from around your ankle, he stretched himself alongside you, half pressing you onto the bed and half off.  He kissed your mouth for a moment, and then started laying a fiery trail along your jaw.  He kissed the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking against you and pulling a moan from you that made his lips curve into a smile against your skin. 

 

Then he worked his way lower, kissing along your collarbones.  He dipped his head and captured one breast in his mouth, sucking your nipple until it was taut underneath his lips.  His other hand cupped your other breath, kneading it gently as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over your peak. 

 

You threaded your fingers through his hair again, tugging gently as you panted against the pillow from his ministrations.  Your other hand reached down for him, but he was out of reach, so you grasped the wrist of the hand that was cupping your breast.  You writhed underneath him, trying to get all of you under him instead of this torturous half-on, half-off game he was playing at. 

 

You could feel the tension already, low in your belly, and you knew how wet you were.  You groaned in frustration as he made another circuit between your chest and your neck.

 

“P-Please, Rafael,” you stuttered. You tugged on his hair until his head was over your face, and you pulled him in for a rough kiss, full of nipping teeth and plunging tongues. 

 

He lost control of himself, forgetting whatever plan he had started with.  He growled into the kiss, and slid the rest of his body over yours, pressing you into the mattress with his weight.  You could feel his erection, heavy against your hip, and you opened your legs to him.  He shifted slightly, and his cock slipped between your legs.  He groaned and pushed forward until the tip of him was touching you, then he groaned again at the wet heat of you.

 

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice low and husky.  “I want you so badly.”

 

You could feel the tension coursing through him, the strain running through his arms that braced him on either side of your head.  He looked down at you, his eyes clouded by lust.

 

You gazed back at him.  “Are you sure there wasn’t anyone else after me?” you asked. 

 

He shook his head.  “I swear.”  Then, almost shyly, he asked, “what there anyone after me?”

 

You ran a finger over his mouth, tracing the outline of his kiss-swollen lips.  “No.  And there wasn’t really anyone before you either.”  You smiled up at him and he returned it with one of his own.

 

“If you want, I…” you started, but then stopped, considering your words.  “Before we…broke up, I got an IUD.  I wanted to surprise you, but then the Munson case started…”  You trailed off, trying to read his expression.  “It just made sense to not worry about it anymore.”

 

“You don’t want me to use a condom?” he asked.

 

Your face was burning hot, and you gave him a lame shrug from your place underneath him.  “You don’t have to,” you finally replied.  “I have a clean bill of health, and if you do too…”  You still couldn’t read his expression, so you walked it back.  “Or just use a condom.  It’ll just be extra safe.”

 

He stared down at you, and when you squirmed in embarrassment, it caused your slick crease to press against him harder. You bit back a moan and watched as pure lust rippled across his face for a moment.  He schooled himself, though.

 

“I’ve never had sex without a condom,” he finally admitted.

 

“Me neither.”  He laughed at you, and you smiled back. 

 

“Are you sure?”

 

You bit your lower lip, then nodded at him.  “I don’t want there to be anything between us,” you whispered.  He groaned at this, dropping his head beside yours.  You ran a comforting hand through his hair, then whispered in his ear.  “I want to feel every inch of you inside me.”

 

He growled this time and didn’t raise his head.  Instead, he pushed himself into you just a fraction, just enough for you to feel him and for him to feel you.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed.  He lifted his head to look at you. 

 

Eyes locked, he slid into you in one slow, smooth motion until he was buried in you.  You moaned at the sensation, familiar but also new – you felt the familiar, faint sting as he filled you and stretched you, that razor-thin line between pleasure and pain.  And you felt the new sensation of his bare cock inside you, nothing between you. He didn’t move for a moment. Instead, he held himself still and gazed down at you.  From the naked emotion in his face, you knew there was nothing between you there either.

 

“I love you, Y/F/N,” he whispered before kissing you.  “So much.”

 

You kissed him back.  “I love you too, Rafael.”

 

He started to move then, sliding out only halfway before pushing himself back into your molten core.  It had been too long for you, and you knew you weren’t going to last.  Every time he seated himself back into you, the coil in your belly tightened a bit more. 

 

You wrapped your legs around him and tilted your pelvis up to meet his thrusts, giving him that extra little bit of yourself.  He braced himself on one arm and reached the other up to cup your face, keeping your head turned so that you had to look at him.  Your face was flushed with desire, and the tension in you was almost unbearable.

 

“Rafi,” you warned, breathless. “I’m so close.”

 

“Me too,” he panted as he thrust harder into you.  “Cum with me.”  You tried to turn your head but he forced it back to center, staring into your eyes with his fiery green ones.  “I want to feel you cumming all over my cock.”

 

The steady thrusts of his pelvis put pressure on the sensitive bundle of nerves where you were both joined, and when combined with his words and his intense gaze – the tension in you snapped in a brilliant explosion behind your eyelids.  You cried out his name over and over as he plunged into you, his hips stuttering as you coaxed his orgasm with your own.  You could feel your sheath grip him, and he came a moment after you. You could feel his cock pulsing deep in you, spilling himself in torrents of liquid heat.

 

He thrust his way through his own release, then collapsed on top of you, panting.  You felt your own racing pulse start to slow, and you scratched lightly at his scalp as he gradually calmed down too.  Finally, he lifted himself up and slid out of you, pressing a firm kiss to your mouth. 

 

“Was that okay?” he whispered.

 

“Yes,” you replied.  You grinned up at him.  “It was okay.”

 

He chuckled and kissed you again, then disappeared for a moment to get you a towel to clean up with.  Once you were cleaned up to the best of your abilities, you sat at the edge of the bed, uncertain what to do next.

 

Barba stretched out along the bed, pulling the covers back and patting your side of the bed invitingly.  “Stay with me,” he said quietly.  His eyes were soft and pleading.  “I’ll never send you away again. Whatever happens, we can face it together.  Please.”

 

You smiled at him, then nodded. You crawled into the space he made for you, settling against him.  Your head fit perfectly in the nook between his chin and his chest.  He wrapped his arm around you, and his other hand grasped yours that lay on his chest.  He twined his fingers through yours, and you smiled again.  It felt like home.


	23. Chapter 23

You had joked once that good sex made you sleepy, and Barba remembered it with a smile.  He had no sooner pulled you against his chest, twining his hand with yours, then you were lightly snoring against him.  He didn’t even have a chance to tell you ‘good night.’  You were out that fast.

 

He didn’t fall asleep right away though. He listened to your steady breathing, marveling at your hand in his.  He never thought he’d ever see you again, let alone have dinner with you. Let alone be able to get you home, apologize to you, and have you back in his bed.  He hadn’t intended what had happened, but it was like falling off of a cliff.  The moment he had his arms around you – and you didn’t shove him away – he was a goner. 

 

And you had seemed as desperate for his touch as he was for yours.  The look on your face when he had entered you mirrored his own.  Relief at being back together, wonder at the intense passion of being joined with nothing between you.  It had obliterated all of the past hurt.  But Barba knew that it wouldn’t last. 

 

It would be a long road back.  He saw the hesitation on your face at dinner, and then he saw the raw pain he had caused you when you entered his apartment. He saw the hurt again when he took you into his bedroom, when you thought that he had paraded random women through there. 

 

He pressed his nose against your head, inhaling your scent that he had missed for so long.  He was going to do whatever it took to fix everything he had done wrong.  You eventually rolled over with a grumble, kicking your feet from under the covers (you had explained your hot feet issue to him in the past, he remembered with a smile), and settling into the pillow for a deeper sleep.  Barba eased his way out of bed, grabbed his phone, and sent a quick email before plugging it in to charge.  Then he eased back into the bed, spooning you until he fell asleep too.

 

* * *

 

You woke up with a start, not remembering where you were.  Then you felt the heavy arm around you, and it came back to you in a rush.

 

Your immediate reaction was to run, but it felt good to be back in Barba’s arms.  When you had buried the breakup, you had also buried all the good parts.  So when the breakup came flooding back to you, so did the good memories.  The awful words he had said the day of Dodds’ funeral, and the amazing Christmas he had planned for you.  The emptiness when he left you to pack up your belongings and all the times you had cuddled on the couch, making out and teasing each other.

 

You realized that Barba had been acting in a way that he thought was right.  You realized that he had suffered too.  If the two of you could mend your relationship…the thought made you feel a glimmer of hope you hadn’t felt in a long while.

 

He stirred behind you, and you rolled over to face him. 

 

“Morning,” he whispered gruffly. “What time is it?”

 

You raised your head to look at his alarm.  “Almost five. You need to get ready for work soon,” you told him.

 

He grumbled and nestled deeper into his pillow, his eyes closed.  “Nope,” he said.  “I emailed work last night.  Taking a sick day.”

 

You were shocked.  Your mouth hung open, unable to comprehend.  “A sick day?” you whispered.  “Didn’t you go to trial once with the flu?  It’s, like, an urban legend.”

 

He grinned against the pillow and opened one bleary eye to look at you.  “Damned right I’m a legend.”  You snorted, but he continued, more seriously.  “I want to spend the day with you.  We should talk, get caught up with each other.”  He reached for your hand, then pressed the back of it against his lips. “I’ve missed you too much.”

 

You pulled your hand away and stroked it through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails like he liked.  “I missed you too.”  You wanted to say more, but you yawned widely and made him chuckle.

 

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured.  You kissed him on his forehead, then rolled back onto your side and did just that.

 

* * *

 

He nodded off too, not waking up until a few hours later.  He was spooned against you again, pressed against your naked form under the sheets. You seemed to still be asleep – your breathing was deep and even. 

 

He ran his free hand over your form, firm enough to not be ticklish but light enough to not wake you.  He loved touching you.  He couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of it; he imagined lying in bed with you fifty years from now and still loving the feel of you under his hands.

 

You didn’t seem to mind in the moment either.  You were waking up slowly, making breathy moans as his hand roamed over you.  He cupped your breast gently and felt you arch into his touch, pressing yourself into his hand.  He shifted a bit so that he could whisper in your ear. 

 

“Morning again,” he said, his voice low. He shifted his hand to your side, tickling you and making you squeal in laughter.  He groaned as you wriggled against him, trying to dodge his fingers.

 

“I thought you said we were going to talk,” you laughed, a bit breathless.

 

“Well,” he said, his mouth against the side of your neck, right at the juncture near your shoulder where you were particularly sensitive.  “I’m a pretty good multi-tasker.”

 

You laughed again.  “I didn’t know that.”  You whimpered as he sucked gently on your neck, his teeth nipping at you. “Why don’t you show me, counselor?”

 

So he did.

 

* * *

 

You spent the day with Barba, but you drew the line at spending the night with him again.  It was a lot to take in.  The sudden shift from accepting your loneliness to being thrust back into his life was wholly unexpected.  He seemed eager not just to pick up where you left off, but to fast forward to an entirely new territory.  It made you nervous.

 

He gave you your star necklace back, placing it back around your neck.  While you showered, he made a show of clearing off a shelf in his medicine cabinet for you.  He did the same with his closet and his dresser, making more space in his life for you than he ever had before.  He handed you the spare key on the Blue Jays keychain, folding your hand around it and then holding your fist between his hands.

 

“I want you to move in with me,” he said, his green eyes solemn. 

 

You could only smile uneasily and say that you’d think about it.  You didn’t want to give up your apartment.  What would happen when he broke up with you again?  You’d have nowhere to go, other than Amanda’s couch, and Frannie already had a claim on that.

 

 _Then_ he asked you to go to a charity dinner with him on Saturday night. The thought of you, standing beside him, with all of those beautiful and, well, _impressive_ women made you want to throw up.  It might have been different if you were still a sergeant with the NYPD, but you weren’t even that now.  Now you were just a self-employed P.I.

 

At least you had an excuse. “Amanda and I are going out on Saturday,” you told him, trying to hide your relief at having prior plans. “She’s getting a sitter, and we’re going to a costume party at a nearby bar.”

 

You winced at the look of disappointment that crossed his face.  “You could come with us,” you conceded.

 

He shook his head.  “I don’t want to crash girls’ night out,” he said.  He smiled at you, but his eyes looked sad. 

 

“It’s not really girls’ night,” you replied, rolling your eyes.  “Carisi already horned in.  All he has to do is bat those blue eyes at Amanda and she can’t say no.”

 

Barba chuckled at this.  “Women,” he complained with a rueful smirk.

 

“Oh, really?  I seem to recall a certain ADA unable to resist those blue eyes when they were begging to be second chair….”

 

“Objection,” he said.  “Badgering the witness.”

 

“Sustained,” you replied.  “I can text you the address of the bar if you change your mind.”  You heaved a heavy sigh, then stood up to leave.  You pulled your coat over your rumpled outfit, then took out your phone to order a car.  He reached out and stilled you.

 

“At least let me drive you home?” His eyes still looked sad, so you let him.

 

* * *

 

True to your word, you had texted Barba the name and address of the bar where you were spending your Saturday night, but he had just responded with a simple “be safe, have fun, and let me know when you’re home.”

 

He wanted to join you, but he didn’t want to smother you.  He had watched the faint look of horror on your face as he had asked you to move in with him, and it only grew when he had asked you to join him at the charity dinner. He knew why you were hesitant.  He just didn’t know how to fix it.  He probably couldn’t ever fix it.

 

He skipped the dinner himself and instead settled in for a night on the couch.  He was in his Harvard Law t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.  He had a glass of scotch in his hand as he flipped through the television channels, unable to find anything worth watching.

 

It was still relatively early when he was surprised by the sound of a key in the lock, and he peered over the back of the couch just in time to see you make your way into the apartment, wrapped up in your heavy coat.  You dropped your bag in the entryway.  You looked up at him, startled.

 

“I thought you were at a charity thing?” you asked.

 

He shrugged.  “Skipped it.  I thought you were at a costume party?”

 

“I was,” you replied with a shrug of your own.  “But Amanda found a….gentleman friend, and Carisi was talking to a table of girls from Fordham.  Thought I’d come here and wait for you.”  You bit your lip and added, “if that’s okay.”

 

“Sure,” he said.  He sat his empty glass down on the coffee table and stood up to make his way over to you.  “Weren’t you afraid that I’d bring another woman home though?”

 

You flinched at his words, and he wanted to kick himself, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue.   

 

“Do you want me to go home?” you asked, your voice quiet.  You stood in the entryway, uncertain.

 

He sighed and came to stand in front of you.  “No.  I want you to stay.”  He reached out and tugged on the lapels of your coat.  “I haven’t seen you in three days.”

 

You dropped your head.  “I know.  I’ve been dealing with some things…”

 

“What things?” he cut in.

 

“Just…life stuff,” you replied, gesturing vaguely.  You raised your head to look at him, and you took a deep breath.  “Look, can we talk?”

 

Barba swallowed hard and nodded, then turned to go sit on the couch.  This was it.  He had been expecting it ever since you left his place a few days ago and hadn’t returned, even after his invitation to move in with him.  He had messed it up too much.  He couldn’t fix it.

 

You followed him but didn’t sit beside him.  Instead, you stood in front of him, still in your buttoned-up coat.  You took another deep breath.

 

“I’d like to get this all out without any interruption,” you told him.  “I’ve been rehearsing it in my head all evening.”  He nodded again, the knot in his throat making it hard to breathe. You continued.

 

“I’ve never really had a boyfriend before,” you said.  “You know that.  For a long time, I just figured I’d never find anyone.  And honestly, that felt easier.  I figured that no one would be interested in someone as messed up as me. I had crushes on people, and then I met you and had a crush on you, but I didn’t think it would lead to anything.”

 

You took another deep breath and started pacing in front of him, your boots stomping back and forth.  “I never really let anyone see the real me. Including you.  When we started hooking up, I made sure you only saw the good parts.  The me that’s funny.  The one that jokes around.  And then, after Christmas, I still tried to only show you the good parts.”  You paused in your pacing to look at him, and he nodded encouragingly at you.  You shoved your hands in your coat pockets and kept going.

 

“I know you were only trying to protect me when you broke up with me, but it felt like you were giving up with things got rough.  And I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to hide the ugly parts of my life.  What happens if I move in with you and you see my panic attacks?  Or my insomnia?  Or you get woken up three nights in a row because of my night terrors?”  You took a shaky breath and looked at him, your eyes shiny with tears that threatened to fall.  “I love you more than anyone, Rafi, and you say you love me, but will you still feel that way when you realize it isn’t all….I dunno….sexy hijinks or whatever?”

 

His mouth quirked into a half-grin despite his pounding heart.  “Sexy hijinks?”

 

You pulled your hands out of your pockets and threw them in the air in exasperation.  “I don’t know!  You know what I mean!”

 

He leaned forward and reached out a hand to you, but you ignored it and continued your pacing.  “I’ll always have abandonment issues,” you said.  “And I’m probably going to be in therapy for the rest of my life.  Thank god Dr. Warren operates on a sliding scale, since I don’t have insurance anymore.” You devolved into muttering, mostly to yourself, striding back and forth in front of him. 

 

“Can I talk now?” he asked after a moment of watching you mumble to yourself.  It was exactly how you used to pace when you were in his office late at night, puzzling out a case that was going sideways in the middle of trial. He smiled at the memory.  You stopped and nodded at him, shoving your restless hands back into you pockets. 

 

“You haven’t seen the worst parts of me either,” he said gently.  “I have my own issues that I’ve hidden from you.  If you move in with me, they’ll come up eventually…”

 

You scoffed at him.  “What issues do you have?  Other than clashing patterns between your ties and pocket squares?”

 

He glared at you in mock anger, then turned serious and continued.  “My childhood was difficult, Y/F/N.  My father beat me and my mother, almost daily.  He’s been dead fifteen years, and I still curl my hand into a fist when I think about him.”  He paused a moment, composing himself.  “And it was tough, being the kid from el barrio that went away to Harvard.  I didn’t fit in there, and I don’t fit in with the neighborhood anymore.”  He looked up and saw you gazing at him, your head cocked to the side.  “Maybe I should go to therapy,” he concluded with a weak laugh.

 

“Maybe,” you conceded.  Your head was still tilted, and your face was serious. He reached out his hand again, and this time you took it, still standing over him.

 

“We were never really honest with each other,” he said sadly.  “I think that’s where we went wrong.”  The knot in his throat made it difficult to talk.

 

You squeezed his hand and shook your head.  “It’s not a bad thing if we learn from it,” you replied.  “Rafi, I want to be with you.  I just want you to know how I feel.  I wanted to be honest with you.”

 

“Does this mean you’ll move in with me?” he asked, hope blossoming in his chest.

 

You pulled your hand away. “Complete honesty?”  He nodded.  “I don’t like your apartment,” you admitted.  “I feel like I’m walking through some trade magazine for interior decorating for assholes.”

 

Barba gave a bark of shocked laughter. “What?”

 

You gestured to the couch.  “That is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on,” you said.  You threw your arm in a wide arc, sweeping past the giant oil painting on one wall. “And what is that painting?  A red square on a slightly darker red canvas?”

 

“It’s by an up-and-coming artist,” he said, half-defensively.

 

“It looks like a crime scene photo, and not even in a fun, ironic, ‘I’m an ADA’ sort of way,” you continued. “And your mantle.”  You pointed and he followed your finger to look at the abstract crystal sculptures arranged on the shelf over his fireplace.  “What are these?  It looks like you swiped these from some budget version of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.”

 

He grinned at you.  “You can maybe just be ninety percent honest, you know.”

 

You sagged a bit.  “I’m sorry.  I did have a few drinks before I left the party.”

 

“I can tell.  So you won’t move in with me?”

 

“That’s one of the life things I was dealing with the past few days,” you replied.  “My building is going co-op, and I can’t afford to buy in, but I don’t want to just move in with you.  I don’t feel like I really belong here.”

 

He gestured for you to come over to him, so you did, dragging your feet a bit.  He took your hand again and gazed up at you.  “You could redecorate however you want,” he said softly.  The thought of you moving your stuff into his place made the knot in his throat loosen, but then a thought came to him.  Maybe that was part of the problem – it was _his_ place, even if he bought a different couch. Maybe you’d never feel like it was your place.

 

“Or,” he continued, taking your other hand in his.  “We could get our own place, together.”  He smiled at how your eyes lit up at that.  He had been right after all.

 

“You’d do that?” you whispered. “You’d move to a new place with me?”

 

“I would,” he whispered back, teasing. “But my Fortress of Solitude crystals come with me.”

 

You smiled down at him shyly, so he broke the silence by asking, “complete honesty, right?”

 

You nodded, and he continued.  “I demand to know what costume you are wearing under that coat.”  He released one of your hands to gesture at your legs, the only visible part of you under your coat.  You were wearing your black boots and stockings that he realized, upon closer inspection, were fine-patterned fishnets.  He felt a faint pulse in his groin and looked up at you with a smirk.

 

You were blushing.  “Amanda picked them out,” you explained, almost apologetic. “Our costumes, I mean.  I told her they were too on-the-nose, but she said we should stick with what we know.”

 

You unbuttoned your coat slowly (at least you’re consistent in how slowly you undress yourself too, he thought with a grin), revealing a short skirt and shirt, both in dark fabric.  It was only when you slid out of your coat that he saw what it was:  a very skimpy police uniform.  He grinned wider and took it all in.

 

The shirt was short sleeved and only a little low-cut, with a gold-painted, generic badge pinned to your chest.  He felt his heart lurch a bit when he saw the star necklace around your neck, still in place after he had put it back on you. 

 

The skirt was very short and pleated. There was a utility belt slung around your hips, sans gun, but there was a pair of handcuffs dangling from it. And the aforementioned fishnets and boots.  Your face got redder, and you pointed over to the entryway. 

 

“There’s a hat too,” you said. “But everyone at the bar seemed more interested in the handcuffs.”

 

“I can’t imagine why,” Barba replied. He reached out and ran a hand over your leg, grasping you behind the knee.  The pulsing in his groin grew stronger.  “This hardly is regulation, detective.”

 

You shook your head at him.  “I’m not a detective anymore.  That’s ‘officer’ to you.”  You leaned a bit into his touch, and he pushed his hand from the back of your knee, up your leg.  He had planned on cupping your ass but stopped abruptly.  He looked up at you, surprised.  You had a faint smirk on your face.

 

“Are you wearing _garters_?” he asked incredulously.  Your smirk grew wider, and he ran his thumb over the edge of where the top of your stockings ended and the soft skin of your upper thigh began.  “Good god,” he muttered.  He felt all of his blood head south, almost dizzy.

 

“These are part of the matching lingerie from when you missed our dinner date a million years ago,” you said.

 

“And I told that you matching was my kink,” he replied.  He shifted his hand so that it was between your legs, his thumb still stroking your thigh but dangerously close to the edge of your panties.  “Apparently, so is a woman in uniform.”

 

“I can read you your rights, if you’d like.”  You took a half step closer to him, putting you hand on his shoulder.  “But I’ve never known you to remain silent.  You have a mouth on you, counselor.”

 

He pulled you down onto his lap so that you were straddling him, and bit back a groan at the sudden weight on his straining erection.  “You’ve never complained about my mouth before.”

 

You scoffed and trailed a hand to the back of his neck.  “You forget that I knew you for a year before we hooked up.  You have no idea how much I complained about your mouth to Nick.” He huffed in indignation, and you lowered your head to nip at his lower lip before continuing.  “You were just some egotistical, hot-shot lawyer, bossing all of us detectives around…”

 

Barba looked up at you.  “I never had to boss you around,” he replied seriously. “You always knew exactly what I needed to make a case.”

 

“I only wanted to impress you,” you said, just as seriously.  “I told you – I had a crush on you.”

 

He placed his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to him.  “So my clashing patterns between my ties and pocket squares were successful after all.” You laughed, and he slid to the edge of the couch.  He placed his arms under your backside and stood up with a grunt, then lurched his way into the bedroom with you in his arms.  Your legs were locked around him, but you unwound them when he sat you down on your feet.

 

“I would have fucked you senseless on the couch,” he said, a bit out of breath, “but apparently my couch has been found wanting.”

 

You ducked your head and looked ashamed. “Sorry.”

 

“You should be,” he replied with mock sternness.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  “As punishment, I want you to strip off this non-regulation uniform so that I can see this matching lingerie that I missed out on before.”  He stared at you levelly until you were flushed from your hairline to the bit of your chest that he could see under your shirt.  Then he slid back on the bed, propping himself up on the pillows, his hands behind his head in a pose of complete relaxation.

 

You started to unbutton your shirt, and he added “go slowly too.  Not that you have any other speed when it comes to undressing.”

 

“Smart-ass,” you muttered, but he caught your smile all the same.

 

You kicked off your boots first after untying them.  He watched you unbutton your shirt (slow as always), then took a hitching breath as you eased it off and let it drop on the floor.  Your bra was black lace (which had been one of his guesses, originally) and slightly see-through.  He could just make out the barest suggestion of your nipples through the lace, and he groaned audibly.

 

You glanced up and made eye contact with him for a second, then shifted your gaze back to some point between him and the floor.  You reached behind you, fumbling with your utility belt, and dropped that too.  Then you unzipped your skirt and slid it over your hips, letting it pool at your feet.

 

“Jesus, Y/F/N,” Barba growled.  He dropped his hands from the back of his head and made his way back to the end of the bed.  “You bought this for our first real date?”  He placed his palms on either side of your waist, running them over your hips before reaching back to cup your ass.  The panties matched your bra – semi-sheer black lace – as did the garter belt.  Black silken straps ran from the belt to the tops of your stockings, and they ended, adorably, in little black bows.

 

“I wanted to seem sexier than I felt,” you admitted, blushing. 

 

He shifted his hands to fiddle with the garter belt straps, fumbling until he undid them.  He pushed the stockings down your legs, one at a time, patting the edge of the bed for you to put your foot up so that he could remove them. And one at a time, he pressed a number of kisses on the insides of your thighs until your chest was rising and falling as you breathed heavily.  You steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders.

 

“You’re sexy enough in your regular pajamas,” he chided you as he eased the garter belt over your hips.  “This might have given me a heart attack.”

 

You snorted.  “You seem fine now.  Besides, you made fun of my pajamas.”

 

“Only because I preferred you out of them,” he retorted.  He looked up at you with a grin, and you smiled back at him.  You reached down for the hem of his t-shirt, then tugged it over his head. 

 

“I’m tired of going slowly now,” you said.  Your eyes were dark with want, your pupils blown with lust.  He felt painfully hard now, so he just rose off the bed enough to push his sweatpants down, kicking them free from his ankles.  You watched him, and once he was naked, you pushed him back onto the bed and crawled onto him until you were straddling him.

 

Barba wanted nothing more than to flip you over on your back and crush you into the bed, but seeing you emboldened made him dizzy with desire.  He laid his hands lightly on your hips, but otherwise let you take charge.

 

You ground yourself on him, your lace-covered core soaked against him.  You braced yourself on one arm, then lowered your head to kiss him.  You were gentle at first, but the kiss grew in intensity until you were plunging your tongue into his mouth, groaning as you licked against him.  He could taste the lingering remainder of citrus and rum on you.  He moved one hand to your head, cradling the back of your neck and stroking his long fingers there along your hairline.

 

You worked your way down across his jaw and under, leaving a trail of sucking kisses that you alternated with little love bites.  You sat up and ran your hands over his chest and belly, tsk-ing at how thin he had gotten. Then your face turned serious.

 

He followed your gaze and saw you looking at the knife wound across his chest.  It had healed, but the scar was an angry red weal that would only fade with time.  He looked up into your eyes and saw the lust replaced with sorrow.  He watched the tears fill your eyes as you ran a finger lightly over the scar.

 

“It’s okay, Y/F/N,” he said softly. “I’m okay now.”  He watched helplessly as a lone tear trickled down the side of your nose, so he reached up to wipe it away.  “Besides, I’ve been told that women like a man with a scar.”

 

You gave a watery laugh.  “I have a little one from where Mancini shot me,” you replied after a moment.  You pointed to a spot he hadn’t noticed, on your left breast.  It was shaped like a half-moon, another scar that would only fade with time.  “The Kevlar stopped the bullet but the force still broke the skin,” you explained.

 

Barba sat up underneath you so that he was face to face with you.  He dropped his head and placed a feather-light kiss on the scar, then raised his head to kiss you.  You kissed him back, lightly at first and then with more passion.  You wriggled in his lap, and he surged up against you, making you moan at the contact. 

 

He went to lie back down, but you stopped him, holding him in his sitting position.  You raised yourself up a fraction, and you reached down between the two of you and grasped his erection.  He growled, but bit it short when you pushed the fabric of your panties aside and lined him up with your entrance, then sank down onto him. 

 

He shut his eyes at the sudden, wet heat as your core enveloped him.  He took a shaky breath through his nose and willed himself to calm down.  He tried to ignore the breathy moans you were giving near his ear as you shifted a bit and sank further onto him.  Without a condom, buried in you, bare, he felt like a teenager again, with a teenager’s restrain.

 

Luckily, the tenor had shifted and you seemed to want to go slow again.  After he calmed himself a bit, he opened his eyes and saw you staring at him, your eyes wide.  “Is this okay?” you whispered.

 

He wrapped his arms around you so that you were pressed as close to him as possible, belly to belly, chest to chest, scar to scar.  “It’s perfect,” he whispered back.  He kept one arm wrapped around your back and lowered the other to your waist, guiding you as you rocked against him and as he thrust a fraction into you.

 

You sighed and laid your head on his shoulder, turning to bury your face in the nook between his shoulder and neck. He reached down carefully and unfolded your legs, one at a time, until they were no longer kneeling on either side of him but instead wrapped around him. 

 

It shifted you the remainder of way onto him, impaling you fully on his cock, and you both moaned at the sensation. You pulled your head back for a moment to kiss him, softly and deeply, before returning to your place on his shoulder. 

 

He had never felt so intimate with a woman before, and it filled him with wonder as you rocked against him. He squeezed you tighter and enjoyed the whimpers that you were sounding from your place against his neck.  He could feel you picking up the rhythm, and he felt your breathing against him become uneven.

 

“Raf,” you started, but he cut you off.

 

“I know,” he said, breathless. “Me too.”

 

You pressed your mouth against his neck in a quick kiss, then pulled back to look at him.  “Cum with me,” you pleaded.  Your eyes searched his face, and he nodded.

 

He placed a hand against your ass, pressing you so that your pelvis ground against him, and he thrust up into you. He watched your face, and he watched as your eyelids fluttered.  He could feel your core tightening too, gripping him as your orgasm tore through you. You hissed his name, then shouted it, and he gave one last thrust before he followed you.  He felt the spasm, then felt your sheath clenching him as he spilled himself deep inside of you.

 

He held your trembling form until you steadied, then he kissed you gently on your cheek.  He helped you dismount from him, then he watched you head off to the bathroom (slightly unsteady) to clean up.  While you were out of the bedroom, he went to the star-light on the bedside table and loaded up your favorite slide – the one with Orion. 

 

When you came back in, you looked up at the ceiling and took in the projected night sky.  You smiled at him and crawled into the bed to lie beside him. He stretched one arm out, beckoning for you to take your usual place, curled up against him with your head against his chest.  You did, but only after you kissed him firmly on the mouth.

 

Once you were settled against him, you were out within a moment.  He wasn’t long in following you. 


	24. Chapter 24

You were quickly running out of time on your apartment.  You appreciated Barba’s offer to get a place together, but you weren’t comfortable asking him to give up his place so soon.  You decided to talk to Amanda even though you knew the first twenty minutes would be her digging for details.

 

“Give me all the details,” Amanda demanded.  You were sitting on a bench at a playground, watching Jesse toddle around.  It was chilly outside, so you were huddled around cups of steaming coffee.  “Did you bang first, and then make up, or did you talk first and then bang?”

 

“ _Bang_?” you asked with a laugh.  “Are we in high school, gossiping after prom?  Besides, what about that guy from Halloween?”

 

“That was disappointing,” she sighed. She sipped her coffee.  “Which is why I need to live vicariously through you. So tell me everything.  Spare no details.” 

 

“I baked him a cake for his birthday…” you started.

 

“An actual cake, or is that a euphemism?” she interrupted.

 

You rolled your eyes.  “An actual cake.  And then we went out for drinks, talked a bit, and…made up.”

 

Amanda cocked an eyebrow at you. “How many times did you…make up?”

 

“Three times,” you mumbled.

 

She threw her head back and laughed. “I knew it!  Barba’s wound too tight at work to _not_ need an outlet.  What is that like?  Does he write out the step-by-step plan in long-hand on his yellow legal pad?  Does he make you rehearse over and over before the main event?”

 

“Most of his legal experience doesn’t necessarily translate, Amanda,” you said seriously.  You watched her take another sip of her coffee.  “But he is, uh, good with his mouth.”

 

She choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing until you clapped her on the back.  Once she calmed down, you filled her in on the more serious issue – whether or not to move in with him.

 

“I’m just not sure what to do,” you explained.  “There’s pros and cons to both sides…”

 

“Y/F/N, I love you, but that’s your problem right there,” Amanda cut in.  “You’re overthinking this.  That giant brain of yours is working out the probabilities of every possible outcome. It’s a relationship, not a math problem.”  She clocked Jesse over by the sandbox, then turned to face you. 

 

“If Barba came up to you right now and said, ‘Hey, I found us the perfect place to move into but I need an answer in five seconds’ what would you say?  No thinking.  What does your gut say?”

 

You furrowed your brow in thought, but Amanda slapped your arm with the back of her hand.  “Five seconds!  Four, three, two…”

 

“I’d say yes,” you said.  She smiled at you.

 

“There’s your answer.”  Her smile twisted into a smirk, and she added, “and moving in together would give you more access to that mouth of his.”

 

* * *

 

Barba came home at a reasonable hour one night to find you already at his apartment.  You were in the kitchen, making dinner, and he put his stuff down and made his way over to kiss you.  You kissed him back but seemed distracted, and he noticed your furrowed brow.

 

“Everything okay?” he asked lightly. He pressed a second kiss to your cheek.

 

“Yeah,” you replied.  “I’m just making pasta.  It’s store-bought.  Don’t tell Carisi.”

 

He chuckled.  “Your secret’s safe with me.  Can I help?”

 

You put him to work making the salad, and in short order, the two of you were settled in to eat.  Barba watched you closely, trying to read your mood. You didn’t seem upset, just introspective.  You looked like you did when you had a speech lined up.  He could practically see you rehearsing it in your head.  It made him smile.

 

“How’s the co-op situation?” he asked, twirling his fork in the store-bought pasta.

 

You sighed.  “I ran the numbers and I probably could afford to buy in,” you explained.  “I have enough for the down payment, and I have good credit so I could get a loan for the rest.  But I don’t love my apartment.  And you should see the assholes that are parading through to see the place.  It won’t be the same in a month.”  You focused on your plate.

 

“My offer still stands,” he said, watching you out of the corner of his eye.  He saw you look up at him, so he continued.  “I know you don’t want to live here, but for the short-term, you could. Then we could look for a place together. If you want.”

 

“I never should have told you that I hate your place,” you replied, shaking your head.  “That was really rude.” 

 

“You were being honest, which I thought we agreed is the best path forward for us.”

 

“You love this place though.  And you own it.  I can’t ask you to go from being a homeowner to a renter.”

 

Barba took a last bite of pasta, chewed, and swallowed before answering you.  “Firstly, I don’t love this place.  Secondly, we don’t have to rent.  We could buy a place together.”

 

You didn’t reply, so he hurried to add, “Or you could stay here until you find a new place of your own.”  He covered up his nervousness by standing up and taking your empty dishes to the kitchen, rinsing and loading them into the dishwasher. 

 

He heard you walk up behind him, then he felt your arms snake around his waist as you hugged him from behind.  He wondered if you could hear his pounding heart. He wanted nothing more than to have some stability with you, finally, but he didn’t know how to approach it without scaring you away. 

 

You released him from your grip, and he turned to face you.  You took his hand in yours and gave it a comforting squeeze.  “It’s not too fast,” you said.  “I’ve been told that I overthink things.”  You smiled at him.  “I want to move in with you.  If that means buying a place together, I want that too.  As long as that’s really what you want.”

 

He nodded, but you missed it as you dropped your head to stare at your hands enfolded together.  “I don’t want to upheave your life though.  I know that…your girlfriends in the past tried to change you,” you said haltingly.

 

He chuckled and reached out to cup your jaw in his hand, gently tilting your head until you were looking up at him. “You’ve been nothing but an upheaval to my life since I met you, Y/F/N,” he teased.  “I cut back on my scotch consumption, I eat home-cooked meals, I sleep with a nightlight….”

 

You broke in with a roll of your eyes. “Since you met me?  Don’t be dramatic, Barba.  We worked together for a year before we ever hooked up.”

 

He wanted to tell you that you had knocked him out of his orbit the moment he met you.  That the time between the moment you met and the moment he worked up the courage to explore more with you was nothing but upheaval for him. 

 

Instead, he just leaned down and kissed you.  He tried to deepen the kiss, but you broke away and looked up at him. 

 

“I don’t make as much as you,” you said hesitantly.  “What if I can’t pull my weight?”

 

You looked so worried, he had to reach out and tug at the piece of hair that had escaped from your messy bun. 

 

“You can pull your weight by cooking, cleaning, wearing your police costume around the house…” he joked.  You cut him off.

 

“Objection,” you said, looking scandalized.  “I’m not your maid or your wife.”  You punched him playfully on the chest, then fussed with his suspenders, snapping them against him.  You missed the look on his face – and how his heart had practically stopped – when you pointed out you weren’t his wife.  He watched you toy with his suspenders for a moment.  You probably didn’t even notice that you said it.  He wondered if you ever thought about that.

 

He thought about continuing the joking, but instead went for honesty.  “You pull your weight by being here, Y/F/N.”  He stilled your hands with his and waited until you looked at up him. “Just be here with me.”

 

You smiled and reached up to wrap your arms around his neck.  He bent down a bit and wrapped his own arms around your waist, making you stand on your toes. 

 

“I will,” you promised, whispering in his ear.  “And I’ll even wear my police costume for you.”

 

In the end, you decided to move in with him at his apartment, then the two of you could look for a place together.

 

So one week, Barba was living alone, and a week later, you were living with him.

 

* * *

 

With the stress of your apartment off of you, you were able to focus on your P.I. business.  You were building a solid reputation.  In slow times, you worked on getting your certification in ethical hacking to expand your services into cybersecurity.  The more revenue you brought in, the more secure you felt. 

 

You wanted to pull your weight with Barba.  You didn’t want anyone – him especially – to ever think you were taking advantage of him. You knew that at least one girlfriend in his past used him for his money.  In the month after you moved in with him, you tried to press him to take money from you – to go towards his mortgage, for utilities or household supplies – but he refused.  He told you, with a rueful grin, to save it for a new couch once you found a place.

 

You helped by checking out apartments and condos that the realtor lined up for you to see.  There was one on Carisi’s street, and you joked to Barba that night that you had signed the lease on it, then and there. 

 

“I figured once Sonny decides to use that law degree, he can become an ADA, and the two of you can carpool together…” you started to explain, but Barba stopped you by kissing you fiercely, not letting you finish the sentence.  In short order, you were both half-undressed on his awful couch, and you had quite forgotten what you were going to say anyway.

 

It wasn’t all sexy hijinks, though. The longer you lived together, the more you let your walls down.  Without an apartment – or office – to retreat to, there was no way you could hide everything from Barba like you used to.  Sometimes he came home to find your face tear-streaked and your eyelids swollen from crying.  More than once, you woke up from terrible nightmares to him hovering over you, concerned. You never wanted to disrupt his sleep, but having him there to hold you and soothe you back to sleep with kisses was better than any therapy session.    

 

You saw him with his walls down too. You saw him stumble home exhausted, too tired to eat, just to go to his home office to work even more.  You saw the self-doubt when he lost a case and how he carried the weight of the people he couldn’t get justice for.  You realized, for the first time, how much he internalized the trauma of the victims.  You had never really considered it before, but it made sense:  Barba saw the same crime scene photos, talked to the same victims.  He replayed the crimes over and over in his head, trying to plan the best attack for a guilty verdict.

 

You saw him, wracked with guilt, every time his abuela had another health set-back.  You saw how he struggled with the decision to either honor her wishes to die in her home, or to make sure she had the best care and possibly extend her life.

 

You saw the strain of a man who came from one world but lived in another, not really belonging to either. You saw how he worked twice as hard to get half of the credit of those in the good ole boys club.  You saw how even his mother made passing comments about how the Bronx and Park Avenue were galaxies apart. 

 

It wasn’t all sexy hijinks, but on the balance, it was pretty wonderful.  You loved falling asleep beside him.  You loved cooking for him, and you loved the rarer occasions when he cooked for you.  You loved nothing more than sitting on the couch, talking about your respective days – you loved watching the tension leave his face and body, and you loved how he looked ten years younger when it did.

 

You still met with Becker once a week, usually for lunch.  It gave him an excuse to ditch his partner, he said.  He told you about the interesting cases you had missed.  You told him about Barba and your search for a new place together.  You sighed and told him about the awful real estate market.

 

“Where are you looking?” he asked, chewing around bites of sandwich.

 

“Just about everywhere at this point,” you said.  “We’re trying to stay in Manhattan so that Barba doesn’t have a huge commute.”  You sighed.  “He’s only moving because of me.  There no way I can ask him to move two hours away.”

 

Becker polished off his sandwich, then started on his chips, crunching obnoxiously and making you smile.  “How do you feel about something that needs a little work?” he asked when he swallowed his mouthful.  “I might know a guy.”

 

You smiled wider.  “You always know a guy, Becker.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, waving you off.  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notepad, then scrawled a name and phone number on it before tearing it out and handing it to you.  “I’ll call him and tell him to expect to hear from you.”

 

You reached out, but he jerked it back for a moment.  “It needs work, but mostly just cosmetic.  Your fancy lawyer boyfriend might not be up for it.”

 

You laughed, then surged forward to grab the paper from him.  “He’s tougher than he looks under all those layers of pinstriping.”

 

Becker wiped his mouth, then balled up his napkin and tossed it on his plate.  “Invite me to the housewarming party, kid.  I’ll bring you a personalized cutting board or something useless as a gift.”

 

* * *

 

It wouldn’t have been Barba’s first choice, but he saw how your face light up as you walked through the townhouse. He barely understood how you even found out about it – it wasn’t listed anywhere – and you had given him some convoluted lineage about how your old partner’s childhood friend’s brother’s long-time, sometimes boyfriend, Paul, had a place that he wanted to sell in the East Village. 

 

He refused to list it with a realtor. He had lived in the place since the ‘60’s, one of the last hold-outs of the art scene that used to dominate the neighborhood.  He spent the first hour of the tour, holding you and Barba hostage in the entryway, telling you about the parties he used to attend with Andy Warhol and how the apartment was featured in some obscure avant-garde movie.

 

Despite being stuffed to the gills with junk and outdated in décor, Barba had to admit that it had potential.  More than that, he loved watching your face as you took in each room.  He could practically hear the gears grinding in your head as you thought about living there. There was plenty of space – for his home office, for you to have an area for your business.  There was even a backyard, tiny and paved over with flagstones that had been pushed up by decades of frost and thaw.  Barba didn’t have your vision, but even he could imagine sitting with you in the backyard, curled up together on a chaise lounge, talking about nothing in particular.

 

Paul had some strict guidelines though. He was more than willing to part with it for an obscenely low price (“I’m on my way out anyway,” he had said, patting the portable oxygen tank around his chest), but he loathed the thought of the townhouse falling into the hands of developers.  Or worse, a celebrity.  He ranted for another hour about the television actor who had bought a historical Village building through a series of LLCs, then tore it down and replaced it with a monstrously ugly modern pile of bricks.  He wanted his townhome to go to people who would appreciate its place in art history.

 

“Oh, Rafi here is a patron of up-and-coming artists,” you said, turning on the charm to a degree that was nearly psychopathic.  “You should see some of the canvases he has in his apartment.  And he has these darling glass sculptures – very unconventional and original – on his mantle.”  You glanced at him, ignoring his narrowed eyes.  He’d punish you for that little comment later, he thought with a smirk.

 

The next month was a whirlwind of activity.  You worried that you were steamrolling Barba.  Barba reassured you, multiple times a day, that he loved the place as much as you.  You worried that buying a place together instead of signing a lease together was too much, too fast.  Barba reassured you in vague terms, because he couldn’t really express the joy he felt to be taking such a big step together. 

 

Paul wavered too until you walked through with him again, taking notes as he relived his memories in each room. You promised to just clean the place up and not destroy it.  Barba listed his condo for sale and got an offer almost immediately for well above listing. 

 

He thought it would be bittersweet to sell his place.  When he bought the place years and years ago, he had some faint hope that he could win Yelina back.  By then, she was engaged to Alex, but Barba foolishly thought that a fancy Park Avenue condo, decorated (as you had eloquently pointed out) for an asshole, could convince her that he was the better bet.  That seemed like another lifetime in some darker universe now. 

 

He would have moved to a soybean farm in Iowa for you.  He would have even left behind his abstract crystal sculptures.

 

All he felt was utter excitement when he signed his name on the purchase and sales agreements.  He watched you bite your lip as you took the pen from him and signed your own name beside his on the paperwork for the East Village townhouse.  If everything went according to plan, you’d be moving sometime in January. 

 

You looked up and caught his gaze, and you both smiled at each other.  He looked away before you could see the happy tears though.

 

* * *

 

Barba was swamped in the final weeks leading up to his Christmas vacation.  He had a terrible case that he was losing – a woman who had been gang-raped repeatedly over a weekend.  She was an addict, though, which meant that the jury was judging her the moment the defense brought it up. 

 

You were handling everything at home – packing up stuff where you could, in addition to your P.I. work – but he was working ungodly hours and felt like he was falling short.  He hadn’t really had time to plan anything for Christmas. You had both agreed to forego gift-giving that year, since you were moving, but he still felt terrible. There was no way he could ever top last Christmas, but he hadn’t even had time to try.

 

You took him dinner on the nights that he didn’t come home.  You spent many evenings sitting across from him at his desk, unpacking the dinner you had made at home and then transported to Hogan Place.  He didn’t bother giving you the daily updates on the case – you had been at SVU long enough to know that it was an uphill battle for any rape victim, let alone one that wasn’t a “perfect” victim.  You always kept the conversation light, and you always kissed him on his furrowed forehead before imploring him to come home soon.

 

Closing arguments were made, and the jury was out for all of an hour before returning with a “not guilty” verdict on all of the accused.  Barba kept his head held high, nodding with a faint sneer at Buchanan as he gloated and left the courtroom.  He stayed there a moment longer, then hung his head.  What was the point if he couldn’t get justice for everyone? 

 

He gathered up his stuff slowly, then got up to leave.  When he turned, he saw someone still sitting in the gallery.  You.

 

You stood up as he made his way over to you.  “Counselor,” you said with a sad smile.  “Why don’t we go back to your office, gather up your stuff, and go home?”

 

He could only nod, so you linked your arm around his and led him to his office, then helped him pack up the remaining paperwork he had to do.  Then you led him back to the street where the car was already waiting. 

 

Neither of you talked on the ride to his apartment, nor on the elevator ride up.  Once inside, Barba slid out of his coat and left his briefcase in the entryway.  He noticed the smell of pine and looked up, surprised to see that you had gotten a tree and decorated it at some point.  When did you do that?  Had he been so preoccupied that he didn’t even notice?  He felt even worse now, leaving you to do everything. 

 

“You hungry?” you asked, peering up at his face.  He shook his head.  He didn’t feel like eating at all. 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He shook his head again, exhausted. You read the expression on his face, then took his hand.  “Come on,” you continued.  “Let’s go take a shower.”

 

“I don’t think I’m up for that, cariño,” he protested weakly as you tugged him towards the bathroom.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, counselor,” you teased.  You flipped on the bathroom light and then started running the shower, testing the water with your hand.  “Get in. I’ll join you in a moment.”

 

He peeled himself out of his clothes wearily, then climbed into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the last few terrible weeks.  He closed his eyes, but he heard you come into the bathroom, then heard the rustling of clothes as you undressed and stepped in to join him.  He opened his eyes and took in your form.  You had your hair pulled up into a bun high up, to keep your hair from getting too wet.

 

He tried to leer at you, but he was too exhausted to pull it off, and you laughed at him gently.

 

“Let me get your back,” you said, reaching past him and lathering up the loofah.  You scrubbed his back, and he sighed at your touch.  He heard you cluck your tongue.

 

“You’re all knotted up, Rafael,” you scolded him.  He felt your hands on his arms and you turned him to face you so that the stream of water could rinse him off.  “Now let me shampoo you.”

 

He shut his eyes again, relishing the feel of your hands working through his hair, lathering him up with your fingertips.  You ran your nails against his scalp, drawing a contented hum from him.  Then you rinsed his hair.  He kept his eyes shut, drowsy from the hot water and your attention. He felt you pull his head down a bit so that you could kiss his forehead, then you reached around and turned off the shower. 

 

You stepped out and grabbed a towel, then tossed a second one to him.  You both dried off and got dressed in the clothes you had brought into the bathroom – you in your blue pajamas and him in his sweatpants.  He went to put his t-shirt on, but you took it from him.

 

“If you go lie on the bed, I can give you a massage,” you said.  He attempted his leer again, and you shook your head with a smile.  “Just a regular one, counselor.  You’re too tense.”

 

He made his way to the bedroom and laid down, and you flipped off the overhead light after you loaded up a random star scene on the night light.  You stood over him, then made him roll over onto his front.  He felt you crawl onto the bed and then straddle him.

 

“Normally I’m facing up when you sit on me,” he said, his voice muffled against the pillow.

 

You snorted above him.  “If you don’t hush, I’ll flip you over and sit on your face,” you retorted.  He made a noise to indicate his particular interest in that form of punishment, but he was too tired to think of a witty rejoinder.   

 

He felt your hands on his shoulders, kneading your fingertips and knuckles into his tight muscles until he was groaning.  You alternated.  You dug your fingers deep into the knotted muscle between his spine and his shoulder blade – the one that was a result of too many hours hunched over his desk.  When he winced underneath you, you eased up and just stroked his back, making him hum contentedly.  He felt the weeks of tension melt away, and below them, months of stress as well.  Maybe even a lifetime of stress.  With each pass of your hands over him, he felt his string of trial losses, his separation from you, the threats – all of the bad things from the past year.

 

“You have magic fingers,” he mumbled. You snorted above him again.

 

“Magic Fingers was my street name,” you joked.  “You know, when I did UC work.”

 

He perked up, remembering the outfit you wore during the Super Bowl bust.  “Tell me more.”

 

You laughed but didn’t answer, and Barba felt himself being lulled to sleep.  He was vaguely aware of you climbing off of him and kissing him on his shoulder, then covering him with the comforter. 

 

For the first time in a very long time, he fell asleep before you.

 

When he woke the next morning, you weren’t in your usual place beside him.  He rolled over and checked his phone – you must have plugged it in to charge after he fell asleep – and noted the time.  And the date – Christmas Eve day.  He thought back to a year ago with a smile, but then the smile slipped.  He didn’t have anything planned at all this year. 

 

He pulled his t-shirt on, then made his way out of the bedroom.  The open living area smelled delicious, and he could hear you in the kitchen, humming along to some song on the radio.  You had your back to him, facing the stove, so he looked you over, enjoying the sight.

 

You were barefoot and in the blue pajamas he had bought you last year.  Your hair had grown out from your days in Major Case and it was loose now. You turned around and jumped when you saw him.

 

“Jesus, Barba,” you scolded with a frown.  “I need to put a bell on you.”

 

He ignored the comment and simply reached out for you, and the frown disappeared as you hugged him.  “How did you sleep?” you asked from your place against his shoulder.

 

“Like a rock,” he replied.  “If this private investigator thing doesn’t work out, you could always be a massage therapist.”

 

You pushed away from him with a grin and turned back to the stove.  “So you’d be okay with me touching strange, shirtless men?  Just getting all oiled up and rubbing my hands all over them…”

 

“Well, no,” he admitted.  He stood behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, watching you cook.  “I meant that you could give me massages, and I would pay you.” 

 

You shook your head and chuckled at him, focused on making breakfast.  From the looks of it, you were cooking for several hundred people. There were diced potatoes, eggs, and bacon on the stovetop, and he saw that you had unearthed his waffle iron and had that going as well.  You also had cut up a fruit salad, and he could smell the coffee starting to brew.

 

“Are you sure you made enough?” he joked, but you half-turned in his arms and poked him in the ribs.

 

“You’re too skinny,” you said seriously. “You’re not eating properly, but I refuse to be the stereotypical nagging girlfriend, so I’ll just have to feed you until you’re fattened up a bit.”

 

He released his arms from your waist and went to set the table and help you carry all the food out to the dining room. You poured two mugs of coffee and carried them out, then settled into a chair across from him. 

 

The two of you ate – Barba polished off an obscene amount of food, then remembered all the meals he had been skipping over the past few weeks.  You looked pleased at his appetite.

 

“What did you want to do for Christmas?” you asked.  “There’s time to get groceries.  I could cook you a goose, make some steamed pudding.”

 

“Did we move from a Regency drama to a Dicken’s novel?” he asked with a snort.  “Will Lady Havisham be about?”

 

“It’s Miss Havisham, and she didn’t leave her house,” you informed him in your most officious voice.  “She became a recluse after she got jilted.”

 

He chuckled but then grew serious. “I should head up to the Bronx at some point.  My abuelita has been struggling, and she won’t be able to go to my aunt’s this year. My mother is going to spend the day with her, but…”  He trailed off.  He wanted to invite you along, but he also didn’t want to go from an amazing Christmas last year to watching him bicker with his grandmother.

 

“Well, why don’t we do that?” you asked. You looked at him expectantly.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Why don’t we just go to your grandmother’s and have Christmas dinner there?  You and I could cook, she could relax.  Then your mother and grandmother aren’t alone.  We could have a quiet little Christmas, just the four of us.”

 

You looked so earnest, it made him want to tear up.  “You’d do that?”

 

Confusion clouded your face.  “Why not?”  You bit your lip.  “Unless you think they’ll be mad at me.”

 

He huffed out a bit of laughter. “Why would they be mad at you?”

 

“Because they’re Catholic,” you said quietly.  “And I’m living with you in sin, and we’re getting our own place together…”

 

He laughed, louder this time.  “As far as my mother is concerned, you’re the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”  You smiled at him wanly, and he reached over to cup your face with his hand.  “And abuelita is convinced that you’re the only person who can talk sense to me.”

 

You gazed at him for a moment, you face solemn.  You obviously wanted to say something.  He gave you time, and finally you spoke.

 

“I want to offer to help with your grandmother,” you said haltingly.  “I have a flexible schedule and can go help get her groceries or sort out her pills.  I have some clients in the Bronx, plus my self-defense class, and can always stop in to see her.  But I don’t want to be…pushy.  Or presumptuous.  Or whatever adjective I’m looking for.”

 

Barba _did_ tear up at this admission.  One of the biggest stressors in the past month had been his abuela’s failing health, and he was constantly guilty about what to do.  He would have never asked you to help, but here you were, offering it anyway.

 

“She’s very stubborn,” he finally said when he could speak again.  “We would have to frame it the right way.”

 

A sly grin spread across your face. “Lucky for you, I have a lot of experience dealing with stubborn people from the Bronx.  I’m practically an expert at this point.”

 

“I’m not nearly as stubborn as she is,” he protested.

 

“Rafael, you are the natural heir to her hard-headedness.  When you and she were bickering at dinner that time, you were mirror images of each other. You have the same green eyes that got this same _look_ in them, and you have the same smart-ass mouths.” 

 

“She’s still worse than me,” he insisted.

 

“And yet here you are,” you said, standing up and starting to clear the table.  “Being stubborn about who is more stubborn.” 

 

You reached over to ruffle his hair as you walked past him, and he turned to smack your ass, but you dodged him easily.  “You _are_ slower than her,” you conceded, which made him stand up and charge at you until you placed the dishes down on the counter. You curled up into a protective stance, but you couldn’t protect all of your ticklish spots.  In short order, he had you doing that breathy, crying laugh that he loved to hear, and you were begging him for mercy.

 

“I’m only stopping because it’s Christmas Eve and I’m feeling generous,” he said, his voice low by your ear as you caught your breath.  He had your cornered in the kitchen, your lower back pressed against the counter.

 

“How generous are you feeling?” you replied, dropping your voice low too.  You placed your hands on his upper arms, gripping him lightly.  “Because I have noticed that you aren’t eating properly…” He pulled his head back to look at you. You trailed off and tried to raise one eyebrow at him suggestively, but failed and raised both so you looked comically surprised instead.

 

Barba tried to look scandalized. “If my mother could hear how you talk to her only son…”

 

You shrugged with a smile.  “Well, if we’re going to live in sin, we might as well do it up big.”  You shoved him away lightly.  “But that can wait.  You should call your mom to see if having dinner at your grandmother’s is okay. Then we can plan from there.”

 

* * *

 

You spent the rest of the day, with Barba’s input, pulling together a menu (which Barba cut in half – “We’re just feeding ourselves and two older women,” he said).  Then you went shopping and spent the afternoon preparing.  Barba tried to help, but he kept yawning, so you sent him off to take a nap.  He hadn’t been sleeping well at all, and you didn’t mind all the work.  You loved planning and cooking holiday meals.  This was just the first time you got to do it for others.  And with Barba’s family?  You wanted to impress them.

 

Christmas morning, your anxiety was at a fevered pitch.  You wanted so badly to impress his family.  And him. You paced the kitchen, chewing on your thumbnail.

 

“Is this wrong?” you asked him. “Should I have made something more Americanized?  Is it rude to go into your grandmother’s home and presume to know how to cook Cuban food? Or would it be ruder to walk into her place and steamroll her with a turkey and stuffing?  I lived with a family once that did a seafood salad for Christmas dinner – should I do that?  That’d be weird though, right?  Does your grandma even like scallops?”  Your head was racing with a million thoughts and only half of them were making it out of your mouth for Barba to hear.  You looked at him for help but he was only smiling at you.

 

“What if your grandmother thinks I’m some asshole, just strolling in and…” you continued, but he cut you off.

 

“My mother sounded absolutely thrilled when I called her.  She called me back later and said that my abuela is absolutely thrilled too.”  He reached out and stopped your pacing by laying his hands on your shoulders.  “You could make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and they would be happy to have us there.”

 

“I just want to impress them,” you whispered, and he winced at your use of the word.

 

“You already have,” he assured you. He pulled you into a tight hug, then released you and spun you around.  He gave you a gentle shove out of the kitchen.  “Go get dressed.  I’ll finish packing everything up.” 

 

You turned around.  “What should I wear though?”

 

“Wear what you wore last time you were there,” he said, sorting through your numerous checklists on the kitchen counter.

 

“Be serious.  I wore workout clothes last time and felt terrible about it.”

 

He sat the lists down to smirk at you. “I am being serious.  You looked great in those running tights.  I was openly leering at you the whole time we were shopping.”

 

You huffed at him but marched off to the bedroom.  You’d have to punish him later.

 

* * *

 

The two of you arrived at the apartment amid a flurry of hugs and kisses, and Barba was left to carry everything up on his own.  He pretended to grumble about it, but he loved how seamlessly you fit in with his mother and grandmother.  He started down the stairs for his last trip to the car, but not before catching your happy smile.

 

Once everything was in the apartment, you started to work on dinner.  His abuelita made her way in, but he shooed her away, telling her to relax. Then his mother came in, but she was less tractable.

 

“Y/F/N and I can handle it, Rafi,” she said, swatting him away.  “Go keep your grandma company.”  
  
You turned from your place at the counter and grinned at him.  “Do you think that’s smart, Mrs. Barba?  Someone should referee.”

 

His mother smacked your arm with a laugh.  “Call me Lucia.  And you’re right.  But if they kill each other, there’s more food for us.”  She turned back to Rafael, shooing him away again until he left the kitchen and joined his abuelita in the living room.

 

She looked unwell.  She had congestive heart failure, and it was catching up to her.  She looked tired, and Rafael could see how swollen her feet and ankles were underneath the skirt of her housedress.  She smiled at him though and gestured to the space beside her on the couch, and he sat down. She reached out and patted his knee, then asked how everything was.

 

He filled her in with broad strokes about work – he never gave his grandmother or mother the dirty details of his job.  All they knew was that he was an ADA, which was a fancy title for “government lawyer.” He talked more about you and how you were settling into your new job.  He couldn’t keep himself from smiling when he talked about you, and the old woman caught it.

 

“She makes you happy,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

 

“She does,” he agreed.

 

“Do you make her happy?”

 

Rafael thought about it.  “I try to,” he finally answered.  “I made a lot of mistakes.”  He looked at her.

 

She patted his hand.  “Your abuelo made a lot of mistakes,” she said with a chuckle.  “I still loved him.”

 

He smiled at the old woman and waited for a moment. 

 

On the car ride over, you and he had worked out how to convince his abuela to accept more help.  “Don’t hesitate to play the orphan card,” you had said, balancing the roasting pan with the pork on your knees.  “I use it sparingly, but it’s effective.  No one wants to challenge the woebegone waif.”

 

“Abuelita,” he said now.  “I was wondering if you’d be willing to accept some help from Y/F/N.” 

 

She bristled beside him, but he continued, his voice low.  “She never had a grandmother or any family at all, and I know she wishes she did. She’s in the Bronx a lot anyway, and it would really mean a lot to her if she could stop in, get your groceries or medicine.  Things like that.” 

 

The old woman seemed to soften a bit and think about it.  Finally, she nodded.  “It would be nice to have someone to talk to other than your mother,” she admitted.  “You’re sure it’s not a burden though?”

 

“It’s not a burden at all.”

 

“Is this important to you, Rafi?”

 

He nodded and looked towards the direction of the kitchen.  He could just make out the sound of your laughter and his mother’s too.  He turned back to face the old woman, and he smiled at her.

 

“It is important.  I want her to feel like she belongs here.”  He took a deep breath and added, “I’m going to marry her, abuelita.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Gentle readers, your writer knows that the real estate market in New York City is neither inexpensive nor easy. As this is fan fiction and pure fantasy, your writer has pulled a bit of plotting laziness. If the (professional) writers of “Friends,” “Sex and the City,” and “Girls” can write up impossible housing in NYC, then why not here?


	25. Chapter 25

The new place was ready a few weeks early, so you cut back on new cases to focus on the move.  You ended up doing a lot of the work yourself.  Much of it was just elbow grease – deep cleaning layers of grime, exposing surfaces that probably hadn’t seen the light since Edie Sedgwick was making art-house films.  Amanda joined you over the weekend, and Carisi tagged along, most likely to show off for his partner.  More than once, you caught him flexing for no reason, swinging a hammer or a block of sandpaper theatrically in case Amanda was watching.

 

You and Barba picked out paint colors over the weekend too, and you painted during the week.  You stripped layers of paint from the original woodwork, then stained and lacquered it.  You watched countless videos online, then retiled the master bathroom.  You retiled the backsplash in the kitchen and white-washed the exposed brick until it was light and airy.  You hired some guys that Becker recommended to have the original wood floors sanded down and stained and sealed. 

 

By the time you were ready to move, you had a good portion of the place completed – everything except the spare bedrooms and baths.  And the basement, the backyard, and rooftop.  You would have despaired to consider the work still in front of you, but you had loved every moment of it.  With every room that you cleaned and got ready, you pictured more and more of your life with Barba coming together.

 

You had been moving the smaller stuff over the past two weeks, and all that was left in Barba’s apartment was the larger furniture.  It was your last night at the place, and Barba had the next day off.  The movers were coming bright and early.

 

You were both settled on the couch in the mostly-empty apartment, sitting at either end with your feet and legs tangled together, facing each other.  You were both dressed for bed – him in his usual sweatpants and t-shirt, you in a simple shift of soft, blue cotton.

 

“Are you going to miss it?” you asked. Now that the move was upon you, you felt a new wave of guilt wash over you.  He was disrupting his life for you.

 

He looked over at you and gave you a sad smile.  “This was the home of a very lonely man, Y/F/N.  I was hardly ever here, and when I was, I was alone.”  He shook his head.  “I won’t miss it.”

 

Then he ran a hand lovingly over the back of the couch.  “I _will_ miss this though.”  The new owners of his apartment wanted the couch, since it did fit it with the sparse, modern feel of the place. 

 

You feigned a kick at him.  “You can’t be serious.”

 

“Hey,” he replied with a smile. “I slept on this couch once when you were sleeping off a bender in my bed.”  He watched your cheeks turn pink.

 

“That’s when it all started,” you said. You had a thoughtful look on your face. “You were such a gentleman.”

 

He smirked.  “I wasn’t having gentlemanly thoughts out on the couch that night.”  He grabbed your foot when you tried to kick at him again, ghosting his fingertips along the sole until you were giggling and squirming.  “I wanted to crawl into bed with you.”

 

“That’s a mighty grey area for a sex crimes ADA,” you wheezed between his tickling.  “I wasn’t able to consent that night.”

 

He shifted his hand to your ankle, holding you firm.  “I know. I have this reoccurring fantasy where you were able to convince me that you have a super-human metabolism and that you sobered up quickly.”

 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Really?”

 

“Yes,” he said.  “Instead, I spent the night out here, just thinking about you in my bed, wearing my clothes.  Wracking my brain on how to get you to spend more nights with me.”

 

You smiled at him.  “Well, I’m spending tonight with you.”  You tugged your ankle out of his grip, then shifted yourself until you were hovering over him.  “What if that night, I was laying in your bed, wearing your clothes - and I came out to join you on the couch?” 

 

He snaked one arm around your waist, and you lowered yourself until you were lying on him, your breasts pressed against his chest.  You braced yourself on one arm, then reached your other hand down to cup him gently in your palm, feeling him stiffening under your light grasp.

 

“That’s another possibility,” he said, his voice low.

 

“I like to think there’s endless possibilities,” you replied, stroking him gently through his sweatpants.  Barba ran his fingertips along your bare arm that was bracing you, making goosebumps spring up across your skin.  “Just infinite realities at how things can go.”

 

He groaned as you slipped your hand under his waistband and resumed your stroking.  His own hand moved from your arm to your waist, to your hip.  You leaned down to kiss him, running your tongue lightly over his lips until they parted, allowing you entry to his mouth. 

 

You kissed him deeply, and he shifted both hands under the hem of your shift, laying them on the sides of your thighs and dragging them up your skin until they were settled on your hips underneath your clothing.  You felt your pulse quickening, and the feeling of his hands on you made you grow wet.

 

You broke the kiss and looked down at him.  His lips were parted, and his green eyes were narrowed in that look of his that made you throb with desire. 

 

“So there’s the possibility of me joining you in the bed that night, and then you joining me on the couch.  What else is there?” he asked.  His hips pushed himself forward into your grasping hand, and you released your hold to slide your hand up over his belly to settle on his chest.  You ran your thumb over his nipple, making him huff out a terse breath.

 

“Maybe there’s a reality where you’re selling your beloved couch for me, and as thanks, I let you bend me over it and fuck me senseless,” you suggested, watching his face darken.  His hands gripped your hips hard.

 

“That’s a reality I want to live in,” he growled.

 

You dipped your head for a moment to nip at his earlobe.  “Then do it,” you said softly.

 

He growled again, then pushed you off of him and stood up.  He pulled you up to stand in front of him, and he pulled you flush against him.  He crashed his mouth into yours, plunging his tongue into you until you were left breathless.  He released your mouth and started to kiss his way down your throat, but you took one of his hands and pressed it between your legs. 

 

“You can skip the foreplay, counselor,” you purred.  “I’m already ready.”  He ran his hand under your shift and dragged one of his tapered fingers along your seam, groaning at how wet you were.  He slid it into you, torturously slow, twisting it in a “come hither” motion until he was stroking that part inside of you that made you weak in the knees.

 

Then he pulled away, making you whine in frustration.  He spun you around until you were standing beside the arm of the couch, your back to his front.  He brushed your hair away from the back of your neck, then leaned down to whisper in your ear. 

 

“Remember our rule?”

 

* * *

 

You turned your head a bit to look back at him.  “I do.” You reached one hand up behind you to stroke the side of his face.  He turned his face to kiss your palm, then he pushed you gently onto the couch, the arm of it acting like a lever.  He held your hips, and once you were stable, he used one hand to gather your shift around your waist.  Then he pushed down his sweatpants enough to free himself, and he pressed himself against you for a moment without entering you.

 

The sight was incredibly erotic, and he had to look away for a bit to steady himself.  Normally you’d push against him, but you were still this time, not moving.  You were just waiting.  He could feel how wet you were, and even in his half-crazed state, he wondered if giving up complete control was a turn on for you.  Or if you were just amorous because you knew you wouldn’t see the couch again after tonight.  He smiled at the thought.

 

Once he was a bit calmer, he pulled back a bit to drag the head of his erection over your slit, coating himself in your essence.  “You ready?” he asked.

 

“Oh, yes,” you replied, your voice just a bit muffled against the couch cushion.  He pushed your hips forward just enough that your feet were almost completely off the ground with just your toes touching the floor.  He made sure your weight was carried on the arm of the couch.  Then he entered you. 

 

Slowly.  Slower than he thought he could, inch by inch.  Most of the lights were off in the apartment, but there was still plenty for him to watch by.  The sight of him entering you made his heartbeat thunder in his ears.  He watched his length disappear into your tight, slick core, and he heard you groan something unintelligible – a curse, maybe – stretching the vowels out.

 

Once he was buried to the hilt, he had to stop for a moment and look away.  It would have been almost too much even with a condom, but with nothing between you, it took every ounce of his control.  He started by thrusting slowly, only pulling out a fraction before pushing back in slowly. 

 

“Is this okay?” he panted after a moment.  Aside from the breathy moans you were making in time to his thrusts, he couldn’t see your face or read how you were doing.  You moved your head, but he couldn’t tell if you were nodding or shaking it.

 

“Use your words, detective,” he added, a bit breathless.

 

“Harder,” you finally choked out. “Fuck me harder.” 

 

He growled, then grasped your hips and plunged into you, picking up the pace.  “This better?”  You didn’t answer, but he heard you whimpering, so he griped your hips tighter. He pulled your hips against him as he sunk into you, giving him an extra fraction to bury into you until the head of his cock was kissing your cervix. 

 

“Oh god,” you sobbed.  “You feel so good, Rafi.”

 

He thrust harder, setting a punishing pace, feeling his orgasm fast approaching.  He was lost in the sight of his cock splitting you open, and the sound of your moaning as he buried himself, and the feel of your slick sheath, impossibly warm and griping him like a velvet fist.  He dug his fingers into the soft swell of your hips, watching your back arch as you tried to push harder against him, wanting even more of him. 

 

He gave one final push, burying himself as deep into you as he could, the crown of his cock pressed firmly against your cervix, and he came with a roar.  His orgasm tore through him, spilling deep into you.  His final push against you set you off as well.  He heard you wail his name first, then felt your tight core grip him, rippling along his length as he emptied himself into you.

 

He wanted to collapse onto you, but he knew you were balanced on the arm of the couch, so he recovered while standing, willing his legs to hold him up for a few more moments.  He waited until your own legs stopped trembling, and he kept himself in you while he rubbed comforting circles on your back.

 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice shaky.

 

“Mmm,” you said, and from your tone, it sounded like you were okay.  He smiled, then pulled out of you carefully, biting back a groan at the sight of his release trickling out of you.

 

He helped you stand, smoothing your nightgown back over your hips, then turned you around to wrap you in his arms. He kissed you, on your mouth and across your flushed face until you were laughing lightly.  Then he pulled back to look at you.  He smirked at the sight – you looked dazed and a little punch-drunk. 

 

He pulled you back against him, then whispered in your ear.  “I _told_ you it was a good couch.”

 

* * *

 

Barba hadn’t seen the place since it had been emptied, and you were nervous to show him your work so far. Anxiety roiled through you, but he seemed completely relaxed and happy.  The deep lines on his forehead were gone.  He looked so different than he had at the end of the year.

 

You took his hand and walked him through the house, showing him what you had already done and what you still had to do. He was quiet for most of the tour, and your anxiety grew.  Finally, he turned to you.

 

“You did all this in two weeks?” he asked, incredulous.  You nodded shyly, and he pulled you into a hug, sweeping you off your feet and spinning you a bit until you laughed.

 

“I had help,” you replied when he put you down.  “Amanda and Carisi helped, and professionals did the floors.”

 

“Still,” he said, looking around. “You got so much done.  It doesn’t even look like the same place.”

 

You laid a hand on his chest.  “Do you like it?”

 

He looked at you and grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  “I love it,” he said.  He kissed you firmly on the mouth, and you could feel him smile against your lips before he pulled away.  “It feels like home.  _Our_ home.”

 

Everything from the apartment was moved and settled, and the two of you had a small dinner party as a house-warming event.  Becker came, and he brought you a cheeseboard and set of cheese knives.

 

“The most useless household item I could find,” he declared before wandering off to check the foundation and electrical panel and all of the load-bearing walls.

 

Amanda brought Jesse, and Liv brought Noah.  Carisi brought himself, as did Fin.  Barba’s mother made an appearance, and you clenched up in worry that she’d castigate you for living in sin with her son, but she just pressed a bottle of wine into your hands and said that she’d send along some copies of the baby bath photos for display in the living room. 

 

You gave everyone a tour, then had dinner, then settled in the living room with drinks to catch up and chat. You and Barba sat together on the new couch, his arm slung around your shoulders and your hand resting on his knee. The party eventually broke up late, and everyone drifted home.  Amanda pulled you in for a hug before she left.  You and Barba both stood in the doorway to see her off, and when she turned to wave with Jesse, she gave you a mock scowl. 

 

“You two are giving me diabetes here,” she drawled.  “It’s disgusting.”  Barba chuckled, but you flipped her off when Jesse had her head turned.

 

* * *

 

Barba finally had the stability with you that he had craved.  Your life together fell into a rhythm, pleasant except for the fact of his crushing work hours and his grandmother’s failing health. 

 

He always worried that the demands of his job would be too much for you someday, but so far, you were understanding. You brought him lunch and dinner when his caseload was heavy, and you used your magic fingers to work out the knot that formed in his back when he was too stressed.  You talked through cases with him when he needed a sympathetic ear, and you listened when he needed to rant about the justice system.

 

You were busy too, and there were plenty of nights where he beat you home.  You had a robust caseload of your own, and you were always going between court, detective work, and client meetings.  And you were helping with his abuela.

 

You and his mother worked out a schedule between the two of you, and you spent a lot of time in the Bronx.  You got groceries and cleaned his grandmother’s apartment.  You sorted out her pills (and caught her cutting them in half, bringing it to everyone’s attention before you fixed it with Medicare through sheer persistence and a lot of official-sounding legal jargon you had picked up in your line of work). You made her small meals that she could easily microwave, and you helped her go to her appointments.  You made friends with her neighbors and got them to look in on her.

 

Barba went with you on the weekends, now doubly guilty to have not been shouldering his load and to have pushed the work off onto you.  You never complained though.  He worried, a bit ruefully, that you already had possession of his most embarrassing childhood photos.  Maybe your whole relationship in the past few months had been a con to get them, he thought with a smile.

 

The weekend visits to his abuela’s were difficult.  You only knew her for a short time, but Barba knew her his whole life, and he struggled to reconcile the lively woman from his childhood with the tired and sick one now. She was a shadow of her former self.

 

One weekend, you were in the kitchen, putting away some leftovers that she could reheat the next day.  His grandmother beckoned to him to follow her into her bedroom.  She opened a drawer in her dresser and rustled around for a moment, then withdrew her hand.  She looked around shiftily, like she was about to engage in a drug deal, then she pressed a small box into Barba’s hand.

 

“When your abuelo put this on my finger, I didn’t take it off until my hand got too swollen a few months ago,” she whispered.  “The band is worn down, but maybe you can have someone fix it.  Or put it in a new setting.”  She looked at him with a smile.  “She seems like the type who might like something with some history. And this ring had a happy one.”

 

Rafael felt his eyes flood with tears, and he had to wait a moment after she left the room to compose himself.  He tucked the box in his pocket, then shifted it to his coat pocket as you and he were leaving the apartment.  When you got home, he shifted it again to the back of his sock drawer.

 

Part of him wanted to propose right then, just crash into the bathroom where you were showering and ask you while you conditioned your hair.  But he didn’t want to spook you.  Things were going so well, but he was still painfully aware that you shied away if things felt too fast, if you didn’t have enough time to work through your feelings first.

 

And he wanted to – needed to – propose in some spectacular fashion.  You deserved some gondola in Venice, or maybe a chateau in the Alps.  You never seemed to expect much, and you never seemed to feel that you deserved much.  He had to make it memorable.

 

* * *

 

Catalina died in February.  Lucia had stopped by her apartment after work and found her still in her bed.  From the looks of it, she had gone to sleep the night before and just never woke up.

 

You knew that Rafael was grieving, but he was trying to maintain a brave face for you and his mother both.  You helped where you could – handling minor details with the funeral – and you helped plan the luncheon after the service. You sat beside Rafael in the church pew, your hand steady in his.  You stood beside him at the graveside, your arm threaded through his.  He was trembling beside you, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the icy wind or the sorrow he was desperate to keep inside.

 

He went back to work, burying himself in his caseload.  You worried about him but weren’t sure how to help.  He was wrapped in his own shroud of grief, and you guessed that a lot of it was guilt too.  You made sure he ate and slept, and you made yourself available to talk if he wanted. He didn’t though – he was silent for much of your time together, only offering smiles that didn’t reach his eyes when you tried to cheer him up.

 

You brought in more work in your own business, but not before spending a few days with Lucia to help pack up Catalina’s apartment.  The place was tiny and cheerless without the old woman; she had infused the world around her with life and charm.  You sorted everything into boxes:  some for trash, some for donation, and some to be dispersed amongst her few remaining relatives.

 

You finished in the kitchen, then went to join Lucia in the bedroom.  Rafael’s mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying softly.  You sat down beside her.  You didn’t say anything but just let her cry.  You didn’t know how to help her either, but when her tears tapered off, she patted your knee and thanked you.

 

“For what?” you asked helplessly. “I didn’t do anything.”

 

Lucia scoffed, exactly like her son usually did.  “You’re helping me now,” she replied.  “And you helped my mother so much in her final days.”  She daubed at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, then smiled at you. “She was so happy to know that you are Rafi are engaged.”

 

You huffed out a surprised breath. “We aren’t engaged,” you said.

 

Lucia furrowed her brow in thought. “She told me all about it though.”

 

“She must have been confused,” you replied lightly.  You looked around the room and saw the photo on the bedside table – a framed picture of Catalina and her husband when they were young.  “Or maybe Rafael told her that to make us moving in together more acceptable….”

 

“That’s probably it,” Lucia said. “But she was happy about it either way.”

 

You gave Rafael another few weeks to grieve on his own, then you started to cut through his fog to reach him.  You started by trying to talk to him, giving him an opportunity to open up.  He didn’t though, and you found yourself lying in bed beside him one night, both of you silent.  You knew he wasn’t sleeping – he was too tense beside you. 

 

You turned your head to face him. You could just make out his profile in the darkness.  “How are you feeling?” you asked softly.

 

“Fine.”

 

You sighed.  “I know you don’t want to talk about it…”

 

“You’re right,” he broke in.  “I don’t.”

 

“But you should,” you finished. He turned his head a bit towards you. “Your grandmother wouldn’t want you to torture yourself like this,” you added gently.

 

“Like how, cariño?”  He didn’t sound mad – just sad.

 

“You aren’t eating right, you aren’t sleeping,” you said.  “You barely talk and you rarely smile.”  You reached out to stroke the side of his face.  “I know you’re sad, but you can talk to me about it.  Don’t shut me out.”

 

You scooted over until you were lying side by side, your arms touching.  You patted your chest invitingly.  “C’mere,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral.  “Lay your head upon my bosom and talk to me.”

 

You heard him take a deep breath through his nose.  “I’m sorry, Y/F/N.  I know you didn’t sign up for this.”  But he did turn and lay his head on your chest, and you wrapped one arm around his shoulders while running the other hand through his hair.  He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you tight.

 

“Of course I signed up for this,” you murmured against his hair.  “I’m just sorry that you’re suffering.”

 

He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.  “I should have never let her stay in that apartment. She was cutting her pills – god only knows what else she was doing.  Putting her in assisted living could have saved her.”

 

You alternated between rubbing his back and running your fingers through his hair.  “You know there was no saving her, Rafi.  She was very sick.”  He took in a shuddering breath, and you felt him crying silently against you.

 

“You don’t have to talk,” you continued. “Just listen.  Your grandmother died in her home, just the way she wanted. She didn’t die in a strange place surrounded by strangers.  You honored her wishes, and she was grateful for that.” 

 

You weren’t lying about that – Catalina and you had many conversations in your short time together.  She told you all about Rafael’s childhood and his father, she told you about her marriage to her husband and how he had died young, leaving her a widow for many years.  And she told you that she was happy to die in her home.

 

Your words made Rafael cry harder, but he was still trying to hide it, so he was snuffling against you.  His grief was like opening an infected wound though.  You had to open it up to clean it out and allow it to heal.  So you kept talking.

 

“She died in her bed.  You know, she kept a photo of her husband beside her bed, and that’s probably the last thing she saw before she died.  We should all be so lucky to go that way.  To have the person you loved best be the last thing you see.”  You teared up a bit yourself.  “And I like to think that she’ll be reunited with him.”

 

You kissed the top of his head and let him cry.  You didn’t speak for a while; you simply rubbed his back and held him.  You knew it was difficult for him to express his feelings, so you just let yourself be there for him.  At least he was crying.  The wake, the funeral, the past few weeks – he had remained dry-eyed and shut down.

 

His tears dwindled, and you squeezed him tight to you, trying to comfort him.  “You believe in heaven?” he asked, his voice muffled against you.

 

You thought about it before answering him.  “Not really,” you admitted.  “I think the universe is much more complex than we can ever understand.  Heaven, hell…it seems too simple.  And too final.”  You kissed the top of his head again before going on.

 

“I like to think that there are infinite possibilities and realities, and I think we are born again and again across them.”

 

“Like your star nurseries,” he broke in with a small laugh.

 

“Sure,” you agreed.  “Like that.  It explains how sometimes you meet someone new, and you just _know_ them.  You recognize them from another life.  Kindred spirits or soul-mates or whatever you want to call it.  Maybe death is just like walking through a door, and we get infinite chances to make mistakes or make things right.”

 

You continued after a moment.  “Maybe the moment your grandmother died here, she was born in some other time or reality, and she’s going to find your grandfather again.  She’ll meet him for the first time there, and she’ll recognize him from this life.  And he’ll say, ‘there you are – I’ve been waiting for you.’”

 

You felt Rafael start to cry again, so you rubbed his back and let him for a moment.  Then you added, “and in that time and place, they’ll still have a grandson who’s a stubborn smart ass.  But in that reality, his eyes are brown.  And he spells his first name with a ‘ph’ instead of an ‘f.’”

 

He gave a feeble laugh at this, and you held him until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms.

 

* * *

 

Barba gradually healed.  Work helped, but you were the real driving force behind his restoration.  You gave him space when he needed it, and you coaxed him to talk when you sensed him bottling up his grief.  You made him leave the house on the weekends, taking him for walks or excursions to quirky little restaurants or an off-Broadway show or two. 

 

You kept him firmly in the realm of the living.

 

He was busy with work though, as always, and your own practice was full.  You took a number of corporate clients who paid you to test their security protocols, and there were many nights where he came home to find you bent over your laptop.  You would look up at him with a wide grin and inform him that you were hacking into some financial firm’s servers, making him chuckle.

 

“My lawbreaker,” he would say, kissing the top of your head.  “I’m not hearing any of this.”

 

Those cases were a lot of work for you, but they brought in good money, which helped you relax about the housing situation.  You were still concerned about pulling your weight, but you didn’t seem to count all of the stuff you did:  taking care of his grandmother, taking care of him.  You weren’t just pulling your weight – you were pulling all of it.  And it was wearing you out.

 

There were just as many nights when Barba would come home to find you asleep on the couch.  Once, you were asleep at the dining room table, your head nestled in your folded arms.  You tried to hide it with cheerful grins and makeup, but he saw the dark circles under your eyes. 

 

It wasn’t how he meant for your life together to be.  He looked at the calendar and planned a long weekend with you.

 

* * *

 

Barba talked you into taking a few days off and going somewhere together.  He had some reunion thing in Boston with Harvard Law, and you agreed to go with him.  You were exhausted after the past few months and would have volunteered to stay in New York and sleep, but Barba seemed so intent about getting away for a long weekend that you had to acquiesce.  It was the first time in a long time that he had smiled and really meant it.

 

You ate lunch on Thursday, then Barba packed up the car.  Barba drove, and before long, you were lulled into a thin sleep in the passenger’s seat. You didn’t wake up until you heard the crunch of the car’s tires on gravel.  You sat up straight and rubbed your eyes (and checked yourself on the sly in the visor mirror in case you had been drooling in your sleep). 

 

“Where are we?” you asked, your voice froggy with sleep.  You looked around – you seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

 

“Cherry Forge State Park,” Barba declared as he navigated the gravel road.  “I thought we could make our way to Boston tomorrow and spend the night here.”

 

“Wait,” you said, confused.  “Like camping?”

 

Barba chuckled.  “Nothing gets past you, detective.”

 

“You like camping?” you asked, still confused.  You looked around at all the trees passing you by, then turned and looked at your boyfriend.

 

“I’m full of surprises,” he replied with a smirk.  He pulled into a clearing, and you saw a tiny cabin at the edge of it.  He parked beside it and turned off the engine.  He climbed out of the car, and you followed him a moment later.

 

It was early May, and the weather was lovely.  It was late afternoon, and the sun was a golden coin in the western sky.  It was warm but not hot, and a light breeze ruffled your hair.  Barba popped the trunk and started unloading it, placing your bags on the cabin’s porch.

 

You stood on the porch and watched as he keyed in a code on the front door, unlocking it.  You helped carry in the bags and looked the place over. Aside from a bathroom and a small kitchenette, it was one room – there was a double bed nestled in one corner, and a little sitting area.  The cabin was dim, and you noticed that there were no windows.  It was quaint, but by Barba’s standards, it was the equivalent of slumming it.  When he said he wanted to spend a long weekend with you, you had assumed it meant a nice hotel with a flat-screen and mini-bar.  You told him as much.

 

“All in good time, Y/F/N,” he said. He checked the kitchenette, opening the fridge to reveal that it had been stocked with food and drink.  He caught you watching and shrugged.  “You can pay extra and have them prepare everything for you.  I just thought it’d be nice to have some peace and quiet for a day or two.”  He suddenly looked nervous, so you made your way over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist.

 

“It’s wonderful,” you said, your face pressed against his chest.  “It’s just unexpected.”  You pulled back to gaze up at him.  “I never pegged you as the camping type.”

 

He smiled down at you.  “I don’t know why not.  You can drink scotch in the forest just as well as you can on Park Avenue.”  He kissed you lightly, then nodded over at the bed.  “Go lie down for an hour.  I’ll get dinner ready.”

 

“You sure?”

 

He nodded again. “Absolutely.  Let me handle things for once.”

 

You hugged him again, then went and laid down on the bed.  It wasn’t as comfortable as the one at home, but you were out in moments anyway.

 

You woke up later to Barba shaking you gently.  “What time is it?” you asked, your eyes bleary.

 

He smiled down at you.  “Time to eat.”  He held a hand out to you and helped you off the bed.  Before you could go eat, though, he pulled you into a hug, almost desperate in how tight he was holding you. 

 

You laughed and hugged him back. “What’s that for?” you asked.  He nosed your hair, inhaling your scent.  He didn’t answer you though, and it took a moment for him to release you and lead you to the porch where dinner was waiting.

 

“It’s not elaborate,” he explained. “I was going for a picnic theme.” 

 

You smiled at him.  “It’s perfect.”  You both sat down and tucked into the spread:  giant sandwiches, a salad, a loaf of crusty French bread served with strawberry preserves and a chunk of melting brie.  For dessert there was a cake laden with berries.  And there was wine.  He bussed the table, making you stay on the porch as he cleaned up. He came back out to join you, holding your sweater in his hands.  He handed it to you, and you pulled it over your arms.  Then he sat beside you on the steps.

 

Between the nap and good food and alcohol, you felt more relaxed then you had in a long time.  “This was pretty great, Raf,” you said.  “Thank you for planning it.”

 

He pulled you against him, and you rested your head on his shoulder.  “That’s not all,” he said.  “Wait until the show starts.”

 

“What show?”

 

He kissed your temple and gestured to the western sky, where the sun was rapidly descending.  “Cherry Springs is the best dark skies site on the eastern seaboard,” he said.  “That’s why there’s no windows in the cabin.  They have strict rules about lights.  After the sun sets, we’re going to have the best night sky you’ve ever see, Y/F/N.”  You gave a little startle as you turned to look at him.  “And there’s a meteor shower tonight too,” he added.

 

He turned your head a bit and dropped his head to kiss you, his lips gentle against yours.  He broke the kiss and murmured, “wait here.”  He got up and went into the cabin.

 

He came back a moment later, his arms laden with pillows and blankets from the bed.  He stepped off the porch and arranged everything in the clearing, smoothing out the blankets and lying the pillows at the edge.  Then he looked at you and gestured for you to join him.

 

You laid down beside him, and he drew a blanket over you both to protect you from the chilly spring evening.  You rested your head on his chest, but not before you kissed him again and murmured your thanks again.  He took your hand in his and explained the night sky that was starting to appear to the east.

 

“Tonight’s the peak night of the Eta Aquarids meteor shower,” he said, his voice low.  You turned your head to look up, breathless from the sight in front of you.  Even in your childhood, growing up in the country, you had never seen a sky like this. And Barba kept talking.

 

“There’s no moon tonight, so it’s all dark skies.  This is the only site in the eastern seaboard where you can see the shadow of the Milky Way. The meteors should start in a few hours.”

 

“It’s already amazing,” you said, your voice filled with wonder. 

 

“In the meantime, if you look over there,” he said, taking your entwined hands and pointing to the edge of the clearing, “you can just make out Orion.  And if you look right about there, you can see where the Orion nebula would be.”  You heard the smile in his voice, and you grinned too.

 

“I know the basic constellations, counselor,” you teased, remembering your earlier conversation.

 

“That the closest stellar nursery to Earth,” he continuing, ignoring your comment.  “Just tons of stars being born in massive clouds of gas and dust.”

 

You snorted, then turned and watched the sky emerge as the sun set completely.  Barba had one arm tight around you, and the other grasped your hand, rubbing his thumb in circles on the back of it.  You lay in silence for a long while, just marveling at the view, snuggled against him for warmth.  Every so often, he turned to kiss you on the head, and you could hear his heart beating steadily underneath you.

 

When the first meteor streaked across the sky, you gasped and, for reasons unknown to you, felt tears springing up in your eyes that you had to blink away.  “Oh, Rafael,” you whispered.  “This is perfect.”  The two of you watched the streaks of light cut across the impossibly dark sky for a moment, then Barba spoke.

 

“Do you remember when we met?” he asked.

 

You chuckled against him. “Yes.  The Adam Cain case.”

 

He made a noise of assent in his throat, and you continued.

 

“You had a corny line about it being Take Your Daughter to Work Day.  Then we went to your office, and you and Liv immediately started bickering.”

 

His buried his nose in your hair for a moment and took a deep breath.  “I was talking to the public defender and then looked across the courtroom and saw you.  It was like my heart stopped.  I didn’t know what to do, so I strolled over and made a stupid joke.”  He laughed.  “And you narrowed your eyes at me and smiled like you saw right through it.” He released your hand, and you laid it flat on his chest.

 

“I usually don’t have that effect on ADA’s,” you joked.  “At least, Cabot never said anything.  Maybe she was nursing a crush on me all along.”

 

He shifted a bit, then settled. “I didn’t know what to say in that moment.  But I know now.”

 

You turned your head and lifted it a bit so that you could kiss him under his jaw before turning to watch the sky again. “You have a better joke now? Let’s hear it.”

 

He took another deep breath.  “I should have said, ‘there you are – I’ve been waiting for you.’”

 

You started to chuckle but then stopped. “What?”

 

“When I saw you standing across the courtroom, it was the first time I saw you in this life.  But I knew you.  And I knew that I’d been waiting for you my entire life here.  Every lonely night and day, I had been waiting for you.  And there you were.”

 

You felt a lump grow in your throat as tears started to spring to your eyes, and he continued.  “I knew that very moment that you were mine, and I was yours.”  You felt him shake his head above you as your heart hammered in your chest.  “Maybe in another life I got it right, but it took me longer here.  I made mistakes.  But if you’ll have me, I promise to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

 

You cleared your throat.  “What – what are you saying, Rafael?” you whispered haltingly.

 

“I’m saying that I loved you from that moment and that I’ll love you until the day I die.  And when I die, I’ll find you in the next life.  But for the rest of this one – I want to be married to you.”  His voice broke on the last word, and you quite forgot the amazing star show above you. You pushed yourself off of him and looked down at him.  In the extreme dark, you couldn’t make out much – just the barest outline of his face. You still had your hand on his chest though, and you could feel his heartbeat pounding underneath your palm.

 

“So ask me,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

 

“Detective Y/F/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?” he asked.  His voice was hoarse with emotion, and you nodded at him as you struggled to hold back the tears.

 

“I need you to use your words,” he chided you gently, so you threw your arms around his neck, and whispered “oh, yes” in his ear over and over.  He hugged you back fiercely, kissing your through you tears.  It was only after a moment that you realized he was crying too.

 

After you calmed down, you pulled away. “You planned all this during your alumni weekend?” you asked, and he laughed underneath you.

 

“There’s no alumni weekend, Y/F/N.” He grasped your jaw lightly and turned your face to his.  “For a girl genius detective, it’s shockingly easy to fool you.”  He pulled you down to kiss him, gentle at first and then with more passion, sliding his tongue into your mouth and tilting your head to deepen it. He broke the kiss after a moment, releasing his hold on your face to reach into his pocket.

 

“Give me your hand, Y/F/N,” he said softly.  You fumbled in the dark until he held it, then you felt him slip a ring on your finger. He folded your hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle and then the back of your hand.

 

“You have to take my word for it until we get back into the light, but this ring is both old and new.  The stones are from my abuetlita’s ring, and the setting is new.”  He paused a moment.  “She gave me her ring before she died.  I told her that I was going to marry you, and she wanted you to have this.  She had a happy marriage and wanted the same for us.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered. “I can’t wait to see it.”

 

He pulled you in for another kiss. “I love you.  So much.”  He pressed his lips to yours, but you pulled away for a moment.

 

“I love you too, Rafael.”  You reached out to stroke his face, thumbing away the tears that were still trickling from his eyes.  “Let me show you how much.”

 

So, under the meteor shower and the shadow of your galaxy, you did.  Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Cherry Springs is a real place, albeit one located in Pennsylvania. It is amazing, gentle readers. If ever you have a chance to go, your writer cannot recommend it enough. It will make you feel things and give you a cosmic perspective.


	26. Epilogue

There were so many stories about your life together.  Millions, billions.  An infinite amount.

 

There were stories about your wedding.

 

You assumed the wedding would be small, but as the two of you planned it, you came to realize just how many people you really had in your life.  In the end, you had to book a larger venue to house all the people who loved you and Rafael best:  friends, family, and coworkers who were both.

 

Amanda was your maid-of-honor, and she held your hand during the waves of emotions that swept through you:  nervousness and excitement and fear and love.  She threw you a boozy bridal shower and an even boozier bachelorette party. The stripper she booked was, of course, dressed up like a cop, but she got more enjoyment out of him than you did.

 

Frannie was your ring-bearer, and she held up much better than the two men who walked you down the aisle.

 

You didn’t have any blood family, but you could think of no one better to escort you down the aisle than the two most important family-figures in your life:  your brother, Nick, and your father, Becker.  You slung an arm through each of theirs, and the three of you made your way to the altar.  Nick was still limping from his injury, so it was slow going.  Both men teared up, so you had to keep your eyes focused on Rafael, waiting for you. 

 

But then _he_ teared up, so you had to focus on the flowers on the altar so that your elaborate eye makeup wouldn’t run. Which didn’t matter, in the end, because by the time you both got to your vows, you were a sobbing mess. Which set off a chain reaction through the wedding party until nearly everyone was crying except for the dog and one of Rafael’s more stoic cousins. 

 

But when you were pronounced as husband and wife, Rafael smirked and laid a fervent kiss on you, kissing you deeply and making the church clap, then wolf-whistle and cheer until you were blushing a deep crimson.

 

There were stories about your children together.

 

Rafael, with his difficult history with his father, was hesitant about having children, but you worked through it.  You had your IUD removed, but for a while, nothing happened. 

 

You would have been disappointed, but you knew better than anyone that there were a heartbreaking number of children who were already born and needed homes.  So you talked that over too and went to a private agency.

 

The adoption agent sat across the table from you.  “It’s extremely difficult to get an infant,” she warned you. “There’s been some success overseas, but…”

 

Rafael squeezed your hand and cut the agent off.  “We were thinking an older child.” 

 

The agent frowned.  “Older children have more issues,” she replied.  “A baby is a better choice.”

 

You looked at Rafael and caught him clenching his jaw before he stood up and pulled you out of the room.  You ended up going through the State of New York, taking classes to be prepared and approved.  Then you started going to events where you could meet available children.

 

Call it kindred spirits, but you knew immediately which one was your daughter.  She was sitting alone at a table, her head bent over a book.  When someone laughed in the room, she looked up, unsmiling. You recognized the riot of emotions that played across her face.  Longing, anger, sorrow, jealousy. 

 

She had issues – some you were able to work through and others that she’d have the rest of her life.  It was a long road before she felt like she belonged, but you and Rafael were both patient. She was behind in school, but with stability and support, she caught up…and then some.  You took her to be tested and found out that her IQ was high.

 

“She’s your daughter after all,” Rafael said, astonished when he read through the test results.

 

You scoffed.  “She’s yours too,” you added, secretly pleased.  “You may have noticed by now that she has a stubborn streak to her.”

 

Her name was Cassie, and then her name became Cassie Barba.

 

It was only a month after her adoption was formalized that you found out you were pregnant.

 

When you told Rafael, his green eyes sparkled and then overflowed with happy tears.  He laid one of his big hands on your belly, hardly able to talk.  He pulled you in to kiss you, pressing his lips gently to yours. When he broke the kiss, he touched his forehead to yours. 

 

“I love you so much, Y/F/N,” he whispered.

 

“You better,” you teased back.  “Because you knocked me up.”  He snorted and pulled you in for another kiss.

 

Rafael made sure to get home at a reasonable hour, and Lucia helped a lot too.  Cassie, especially, was a comfort to you.  She was a natural caretaker.  There were many times during your first trimester that she stayed with you in the bathroom, holding your hair while you threw up, patting you gently on the back.

 

“I don’t think I ever want to be pregnant,” she told you once.  You were lying on the cold tile of the floor, waiting for the nausea to pass enough to stand back up.  You looked up at your daughter who was peering down at you solemnly.

 

“I wouldn’t recommend it, kiddo,” you chuckled, but laughing made another wave of nausea rise up, and you knelt to throw up again.

 

Elise Catalina Barba was born with a full head of dark hair and your eyes. Rafael had to practically fight both his mother and Amanda over who got to hold her more at the hospital.  Well, quietly fight.  You were fast asleep, worn out from the hours of labor, and Cassie shot everyone dirty looks as she guarded your sleeping form.

 

“Shhh,” she said, scowling angrily.  “Mom’s tired.”  Rafael had to reach out and hug her; she was so protective of you that it made his heart ache.  And it was the first time he’d heard Cassie call you “mom.”  He would have been jealous, but she started calling him “dad” shortly thereafter.

 

Both of your daughters thrived.  You tried to make sure Cassie never felt like she didn’t belong, but she still approached your one day. 

 

“Do you love Ellie more because she’s yours?” she asked.  Her face was stony, like she was expecting to hear a disappointing truth.  You settled on the couch and pulled your eldest down to sit beside you, your arm tight around her shoulders. 

 

You told her that she was yours just as much as Ellie, and that you loved them both.  You tried to explain that the routes that you had taken to loving each of them was different. With Ellie, you had loved her from the moment you felt her flickering inside you like a second heartbeat.  With Cassie, you had loved her from the moment you saw her across the room, making your own heart flutter in recognition. Different paths to the same conclusion.

 

“I love you both the same amount,” you said.  You kissed Cassie on her cheek, then pulled back and looked around conspiratorially before gazing at her levelly.  “I’ll tell you something else though, and if you ever repeat it, I’ll deny I ever said it.  But _one_ of my daughters never made me puke for three straight months, so if I _did_ have to pick a favorite…”  She giggled, so you kissed her again.

 

As the two girls grew up, they bickered and loved just like any other sisters.  You knew that they’d have each other when you and Rafael were gone.

 

Cassie was tender-hearted, and she brought home every stray cat and dog she found.  Ragged feral cats that wouldn’t let anyone – anyone but Cassie, that is – touch them. Dogs skeletal from being starved. Kittens abandoned in a cardboard box, so young that their eyes were still closed.  Your townhouse became a revolving door of animals that you fixed up and rehomed.  When Frannie passed away, Amanda adopted one of your mutts.

 

It surprised absolutely no one when she was the valedictorian of her high school and won a full ride to Cornell for veterinary medicine. 

 

Ellie, on the other hand, was a firebrand and daredevil.  You and Rafael spent more time in emergency rooms with Ellie than you had in your combined years on earth.  The child was always jumping off of something or into something or running at a full tilt at the world. 

 

She jumped from the second story landing, a towel tied around her shoulders.  She landed with a crack that stopped your heart, and you found her lying on the floor, more shocked by the fact that she hadn’t flown than she was by her broken ankle. On vacation in the Catskills, she built a series of ramps using scrap wood and tried to jump a nearby stream on her bike.  A few local kids came to get you, and you ran to the woods to find her and her dislocated shoulder.

 

“CPS is going to take her away from us,” you lamented to Rafael during one of your visits to the E.R.  You were practically on a first-name basis with the staff. 

 

Rafael threaded his hand through yours, then raised it to his mouth to kiss it.  “They’d give her right back,” he teased.  “The State of New York doesn’t have the budget to cover her medical bills.”

 

Ellie’s fearlessness was tempered as she grew up, and she rebelled by going to Yale for her law degree.  She did a few years in private practice, then she became a public defender. She and Rafael would bicker over legal precedents at holiday dinners, leaving you and Cassie to roll your eyes at each other.

 

There were stories about your careers.

 

Rafael tried so hard to balance his work and his personal life, but he failed for a long time.  One evening, he came home late.  You were playing music so no one heard his key in the lock.  He stood in the entryway for a long moment, just watching. You were settled on the couch, a toddler Ellie sitting in your lap as you sang to her.  Cassie was sitting on the other end of the couch, her long legs folded and her feet pressed against the side of your thigh.  You reached out every so often to tickle her feet, making her jerk away with a laugh.  Rafael could just make out what you were singing.  Bruce Springsteen.  He wondered if you had given them a speech about how “Born in the U.S.A.” is about the Vietnam War and the hypocrisy of patriotism.  The thought made him smile.

 

The smile slipped off his face though.  He felt like an outsider looking in.  He had a wonderful family – more than he could have ever dreamed up – and he was never home with them.  He made a decision in that moment.

 

He made some inquiries.  He talked to you for a long hour one night in bed.  He told you that he was burnt out and that he didn’t think he could go on. All those years with sex crimes: all the victims who were denied justice, all the broken lives.  The college student and amateur porn star who had a judge violate her a second time in the courtroom.  The rape victim who got pregnant and had to give visitation to her rapist when she gave birth.  The systematic misogyny and sexism.  The institutions that sheltered predators. 

 

“I can’t do it anymore, cariño,” he said softly.  “I’m sorry.”

 

You raised yourself above him.  “Don’t ever apologize for that,” you said, your voice stern.  “I know better than most the toll this job takes.” You leaned down to kiss him, smoothing your hand over the lines in his brow until he relaxed.

 

“You still love me then?” he asked, and his voice sounded so small that it broke your heart.

 

“Always and forever,” you replied with a smile.  “Whatever you want to do, I support you.”

 

Rafael felt lighter than he had in years.  “Well, right now, what I want to do is you.”  He flipped you onto your back and laid himself on you, pressing you into the mattress as he laid wet kisses along your neck.

 

“I support you in that decision too,” you replied with a laugh.  You laid your hand on the back of his head, tugging his hair lightly.

 

In the end, ADA Rafael Barba became Professor Barba with a course load and office at Hudson University.  He became well-loved as a professor, and you hosted many students at your townhouse. He led the charge in changing the culture at Hudson, and by the time he retired many years later, Hudson had a reputation as being one of the safest, most open universities on the east coast. 

 

Your own business grew, and you had to hire employees to help keep up with the growth.  You rented space in midtown and had an office that housed a receptionist, an intern from a nearby community college, and two part-time investigators.  You were more of a manager now, but you still took the odd, interesting cases.  You made good money and were always able to pull your weight.  Sometimes, like when Rafael switched careers, you pulled more than your weight.

 

There were stories about you growing old together.

 

Rafael taught for many years, but he started to taper off his courses until he was ready to retire.  You worked out a deal with your employees, allowing them to buy you out and keep the business as a sort of co-operative.  They still sent you the occasional case to keep you sharp though.

 

Cassie settled into a lucrative veterinary practice in New Jersey. Her partner was a classmate from Cornell, and you suspected that they were romantic partners too.  The two of them ran a series of low-cost clinics for shelter animals, and they created a stir by offering free care to the pets of homeless people.  Cassie sent you a link one night from the local news.  You and Rafael watched it together:  it was your eldest daughter giving an impassioned interview about the dignity and rights of the homeless.  She looked so confident and passionate, it made you weep against your husband’s shoulder.

 

Ellie created a stir too, splitting her time between her work as a public defender and her work with trying to reform the system.  She was often featured in news and articles about the abysmal way that the justice system treats the poor and disenfranchised. In her interviews, she had the same fiery glint in her eyes that she used to have right before she launched herself off of some surface, prepared to fly.

 

Your daughters always came home for holiday dinners, bringing their own friends or lovers with them, filling your home with laughter and noise. Rafael always found a quiet moment with you in these times.  He always found time to pull you into a tight hug and whisper to you how well the two of you had done.  You always hugged him back, your arms around his waist.  You always agreed with him whole-heartedly.

 

But people always left you, in the end.

 

You nursed Rafael through his final illness.  On one of his last good days, the two of you lay entwined on a chaise lounge in your tiny back yard, watching the twilight deepen around you. You hugged him to you fiercely, like you were trying to absorb him into your bones before he was gone.  He hugged you back, chuckling at your passion.

 

“Remember our rules?” you asked him in a whisper.  “If I say stop, you stop.”  You bit your lip, but then let the tears that had been shimmering in your vision fall.  “So stop. Stop leaving me.”

 

“Cariño, I wish I could.  The one time I am breaking that rule.”  He was silent for a moment, running his hands over your hair.  “I wouldn’t change a moment of any of it,” he said.  “Not a single second, mi amada.  Mi alma.”  He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours until they were intertwined. “Whatever comes after this, I’ll find you there.” 

 

Mi amada, mi alma.  My love, my soul.  You wouldn’t have changed a moment of it either.

 

You didn’t know what came next.  You carried on and nourished yourself on your daughters, which kept him alive for you. The three of your mourned, and you knew that they’d always miss their father, but they were stronger than you. They had been raised in confidence and love.

 

Cassie and her partner married, and they adopted their own pair of daughters.  Their house was filled with the chaos of kids and animals, and you loved it.  Ellie ended up married to Louis Henderson’s son who was a civil rights lawyer just like his father.  They had a son together, and they were arrested more times than you could count at various protests for the myriad injustices in the country.  You remarked once that she had gone from a frequent flyer at the E.R. to one at the county courthouse.  Your heart swelled with pride though, which was good – you wouldn’t have been able to stop her even if you wanted to.

 

You traveled out to California to see Nick, your heart melting at the sight of your old partner surrounded by grandkids.  He hooked you up with a buddy from his days in the U.S. Park Police, and you spent a night camping alone in Owens Valley, where the Milky Way was visible.  As you settled back on your sleeping pad that night, stunned by the beauty of the galaxy arching over you, you could almost imagine Rafael’s arms around you.

 

You returned to New York and had a drink with Liv.  You both reminisced and cried about the man you had both loved in your own ways.  She told you about Noah and his work with the FBI as a field agent.  She showed you pictures from his wedding.  She told you that his wife was four months pregnant.

 

You spent time with Amanda, and sometimes Jesse joined you.  She had followed in her mother’s footsteps and was a detective too, but with Major Crimes.  It made you miss your old partner, so you spent an afternoon at the cemetery in Queens, cleaning Becker’s grave and pouring your heart out to him about your grief.

 

You stopped at Forlini’s for a drink.  It wasn’t called Forlini’s anymore, but it still had shadowy corners for lonely young detectives to hide in.  You ordered the most expensive scotch on the menu, neat.  When you drank it, you let it wash over your tongue so that it hit all the taste buds, just like you’d been taught. 

 

You felt your own story coming to an end.  You filled your days furiously writing, filling notebooks for each of your children.  You had been left by your mother and had nothing to remember her by, not even her name. You wanted to make sure that you left something for your own children to turn to when they felt alone.  You wrote down your stories.  All of them.

 

You told them about the young girl, lying in a field with her foster-brother, mapping out the stars and creating her own mythology.  You told them about the solitary young woman, running alone at night under the New York City moon, a huntress of evil-doers and protector of those who needed protection. 

 

You told them about that same woman and who she became when she felt, for the first time, true love.  You told them about yours and Rafael’s struggles – the breaking apart and the coming back together.  You made that particular point in both Cassie’s and Ellie’s books – that sometimes when something is broken, it heals stronger than it was before. 

 

You told them about the mother, surrounded by the all the stray cats and dogs her eldest child brought home for her to nurture.  You told them about her youngest child, a wild girl who jumped off of things and rode her bike as fast as the wind in an attempt to fly. 

 

You told them about Rafael and his ridiculous suspenders.

 

You told them about the stars – how they were born in great explosions in their celestial nurseries, how they burned for eons, how some died in supernovas and others faded away.  You told them that the universe was vast, wider and more mysterious than anyone could begin to grasp, even a girl genius detective like you. 

 

You told them about hope.  About your optimism that there would be another world, another time for you. Endless worlds, endless times, like the great cycle of stars birthing and burning and dying in the skies of unknowable worlds.  You had no expectations, but you hoped.  You had created your own story by mapping the stars into your own constellations, so long ago, and you had lived with more love than any ten-year-old orphan could have ever expected. 

 

You knew you’d create constellations in whatever star-field you were reborn under.  You’d create your own mythology full of people who loved you and who you loved in turn.

 

The one constellation you wouldn’t need to create – the Smirking Lawyer. Because you loved him so, and you’d already set him in your sky long ago.


	27. Coda

There were immeasurable combinations of how things could have gone in your life with Rafael.  Isn’t that what both of you had done, time and time again?  Rafael, constantly replaying how your first night together could have been different?  The two of you, rewriting your histories.  And in other universes, they weren’t just stories.

 

Obviously, there were darker universes.  There were ones where you never met at all.  The saddest ones were where you just missed each other by a single moment – an elevator door closing a minute too soon, a taxi holding up traffic just a bit too long.  Just one tiny thing that changed the course of your lives in ways you’d never understand.

 

In one universe, Barba never left the Brooklyn ADA’s office, and you spent your entire career at Manhattan’s SVU.  Sometimes you heard about the hotshot lawyer who took all the unwinnable cases.  You wished you had someone like him in your corner.  Once, Barba saw your picture in the paper after you won a commendation. He stared at it a long while, wondering why it made his heart ache in a way it hadn’t ever hurt before.  In these universes, sometimes you each married other people and sometimes you didn’t.  But at all times, you each felt a missing part of yourself and never understood why.

 

The darkest universe was likely the one where Barba had won Yelina away from Alex all those years ago and married her.  It wasn’t a happy marriage by any means.  Yelina wanted more of everything – more power, more recognition, more money – and Barba could never please her.  When he met you during the Adam Cain case, he knew that you were the one he had been waiting for, and he cursed his impatient, younger self for not enduring longer. 

 

You were polite and courteous, always asking about his day or inquiring about how he was feeling.  You always thanked him for his help; you never blamed him when he failed.  You teased him gently, always able to coax a rare smile from him.  You helped him untangle tricky cases, and you supported him in the courtroom.  He loved the late nights where you had to work with him in his office.  He loved that your scent lingered long after you left.

 

Sometimes he caught you looking at him with an indescribable look on your face. Sometimes your gaze drifted to his wedding ring before you looked away, blushing. 

 

Sometimes – more often than he would like to admit – he wondered what it would be like to be with you.  He wondered if your habit of blushing extended to love-making.  He had to assume it did. 

 

He felt guilty that he thought of you that way at all.  He took his marriage vows seriously, even if his wife didn’t – he long suspected that she and Alex were having an affair behind his back, but he refused to stoop to the same level.  Still, in his lonelier moments, he pushed the guilt aside and allowed himself to imagine being with you.

 

But because this was a dark universe, bleaker and colder than almost any other, he would never know.  Because one day, SVU’s brash new captain blundered, and you were gunned down at a high school while trying to stop a shooter.  He attended your funeral, and it wasn’t until he saw how inconsolable the people around you were – your partner, Amaro, and your best friend, Rollins – that he truly realized how much of a bright light you had been to the world. 

 

In that dark universe, Barba lived a very, very long time – a stark contrast to your own too-short life.  When he and Yelina celebrated their fortieth anniversary with a trip to France, he found himself alone on the terrace of their rented country home one night. When he looked up at the night sky, he saw a lone meteor streak across the darkness.  He felt an emptiness in him that he could never explain, and he spent a long time outside, baffled by the tears that he couldn’t stop from falling.

 

But those are dark stories in dark times and places, and no one wants to read about those.  A little heartache is fine, but a lifetime of it?  All you need to know of that story is that when death came to Rafael when he was very old, he embraced it as a long-awaited friend.  Because even in his old age and diminished capacity, he knew that a better life was already waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

Your story had ended.  You had come together, broke apart, and reunited.  You had lived and loved and fought and frustrated each other.  You had two amazing daughters who left the world a bit better off.  On the balance, it had been a wonderful story together. 

 

Rafael had died, and you had followed him eventually.  But he had promised to find you in whatever came next. So when that story ended, another began.

 

* * *

 

_**1996** _

 

Rafael was late for lunch.  He had been held after class to discuss a paper he’d turned in, and his stomach had been in knots.  He had thought he was in trouble.  Instead, Father Collins told him that it was great work and showed a lot of potential.  _Exemplary_ , is the word he had used.  Rafael rolled the word around in his mouth.  It made him feel important.

 

Eddie had saved him a seat at their usual table, and Rafael sat down and started wolfing down his lunch.  Academic praise made him hungry.  Father Collins hinting at a college scholarship probably didn’t hurt either.

 

Yelina and her girlfriends, Camilla and Anna, sat across from him, giggling and snickering behind their hands, whispering at each other and looking over their shoulders at something.  Rafael felt his palms get sweaty every time he looked at Yelina too long. 

 

They had hung out over the summer.  She let him kiss her a few times, even though he had never kissed a girl before and she complained that he sucked at it.  Once, she even let him touch her breast over her t-shirt but only for a second before she slapped his hand away. 

 

She had agreed to be his girlfriend, but sometimes he wasn’t so sure what that meant.  Sometimes she ignored him outright, and sometimes she flirted with him until he couldn’t think straight.  Sometimes when she talked to Alex, she put a hand on his arm and then glanced over to make sure Rafael was watching.  It made an angry hornets’ nest of jealousy spring up in his chest.

 

Now, though, Yelina and her girlfriends were ignoring all of the guys – Rafael, Alex, and Eddie alike.  They kept looking over at a table behind them and laughing.  Rafael tried to crane his neck to see what they were laughing at, but all he saw was the usual corner table of misfits.  It was where all the eccentrics sat, bundled together in their odd solidarity of not fitting in anywhere else.  There seemed to be a new girl there.  Rafael couldn’t see her face – her back was mostly to their table.  He could just make out the curve of her face, bent over a book that she read as she ate. 

 

He shrugged and returned to his own lunch.

 

* * *

 

You hated New York.  You hated your apartment on Morris Avenue.  Most of all, you hated Xavier High.  You hated the scratchy wool skirt, you hated the heavy pullover sweater, you hated the stupid, little girl knee socks.  And you hated your classmates.

 

When your mother met and married your stepfather, you thought moving to New York City would be cool.  You thought that it would be trips to the Statue of Liberty and the museums and all the things that they didn’t have in your old hometown.  Instead, your mother became paranoid in the big city.  She refused to let you out of her sight and only relented when your stepfather reassured her that you probably wouldn’t be kidnapped, raped, or murdered within a five block radius of the apartment.

 

She wouldn’t be mollified about schools though.  She had it in her head that the public schools in New York were rife with gangs, drugs, and teenaged pregnancy – basically, any sordid thing that she saw on late-night cable television.

 

She insisted on private school.  In August, a month after you moved there, you went to the diocese and sat for the placement exams.  You tested off the charts, so you got a scholarship to cover the tuition to Xavier High School, even though you weren’t Catholic.  You also got to skip a grade.  Hooray for you – one less year with these assholes, and the quicker you could get to college.

 

You hadn’t meant to start out so badly.  You hadn’t been popular at your old school, but you had a handful of friends. Here, though, you had somehow managed to attract the attention of the resident mean girl clique.  You tried to keep your head down and avoid them, but they took especial glee in tormenting you, the obvious new girl that the headmaster had introduced as some sort of genius. 

 

You found mean notes in your locker.  Your uniform disappeared one day during gym class, forcing you to finish the day in your gym uniform.  You got called to the office at the end of the day.  Your school uniform had turned up in the janitor’s closet, soaked and smelling from the mop bucket it had been stuffed in.

 

Once, you were tripped on the way to your desk, cracking your chin against the tile floor and spilling your books and folders everywhere.  You had to go to the nurse, blood streaming through your fingers.  She closed it with butterfly bandages, and it hurt less than the applause and hoots after you had tripped.

 

 _You have one less year_ , you told yourself.  You chanted it like a mantra.  _Then you can escape to college and never see these assholes again_.

 

* * *

 

Yelina was waging a campaign of terror on a new girl.  On one hand, Rafael was happy, because it distracted her from Alex.  On the other hand, it distracted her from _him_ , and he was desperate to get her attention focused back on him.  He guessed that they were still boyfriend-girlfriend.  He walked her home every day after school, and sometimes he bought her lip gloss or magazines when he got his allowance.  But she usually turned away when he tried to kiss her, even though he had been practicing in the mirror to make sure he didn’t look stupid. 

 

The new girl – you – were in one of his classes:  English.  You always settled into the back, so he only got to see you when you had an oral report. He wasn’t sure why Yelina hated you, but he wasn’t sure that he understood girls at all.  You were quiet.  You kept to yourself.  You didn’t wave your hand around in class because you had all the answers. 

 

You stood in front of him one day while you gave a report on symbolism in “The Great Gatsby.”  He looked you over as you read from your paper.  Your uniform was a size too big, and he saw the safety pin that helped hold your skirt up around your waist.  Your loafers were scuffed, but your knee socks were brilliant white. You had nice legs.  Rafael knew that much – he’d noticed them on the day you had to wear your gym uniform to class.

 

At lunch the next day, Yelina was flirting with Alex, pressing herself against his arm and laughing at whatever he was saying.  She kept glancing over at Rafael to see if he was watching.  Which he was. He felt his temper rise a degree every time Yelina giggled at Alex.

 

“That new girl is really weird,” he said to Eddie, loud enough for the girls to hear.  It had the desired effect – Yelina detached herself from Alex and leaned across the table, eager to hear more.  Camilla and Anna followed suit.

 

“What did she do?” Yelina breathed.  “Tell me every single detail.”  Her lips were a glossy pink, and Rafael thought he’d do just about anything to kiss them again.

 

Rafael glanced over at the misfit table – you were in your usual position, bent over a book and eating your sandwich.  He felt a pang of guilt, but he leaned over closer to Yelina.

 

Before he could make up a plausible lie, though, Eddie interrupted him. “She’s actually real nice,” he said, his mouth full of half-chewed chicken nugget.  “She tutors me in math.”

 

“She does?” Rafael asked.  He was in the highest math class in his grade and you weren’t in there with him.

 

Eddie popped another nugget in his mouth and chewed.  “Yup.  She tested out of the math here so she goes off-campus twice a week and takes a class at Fordham.”

 

Rafael paused to consider this new information.  Before he could reply, Yelina cut in.

 

“No one cares, dummy,” she sneered at Eddie.  She turned back to Rafael and gifted him with a wide smile. “Now tell me everything.”

 

“Oh,” Rafael stammered.  “Well, she, uh, gave a report on ‘the Great Gatsby.’”  Yelina’s smile slipped when he didn’t continue.

 

“And?” she coaxed.

 

Rafael shrugged.  “And she just kinda kept her head down and read from her paper the whole time.  It was awkward.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him, flipping her silky hair over her shoulder as she shifted back to talk to Alex.  Rafael felt a sharp stab of jealousy, so he kept his own gaze focused on you at the misfit table, bent over your book.

 

* * *

 

You were at a bodega, buying a few staples for your mother.  She was sick with a head cold, and your stepfather was pulling a double shift down at the station, so she relented (despite the kidnappers, rapists, and murders who lurked at your front door) and allowed you to go. 

 

You were glad to be out of the house for a moment.  As much as you hated school, at least you had a place to go. The weekend dragged – there was only so much homework you could do ahead of time, and you mother and stepfather were still in the gross throes of newlywed bliss.  Every time you turned around, they were kissing.  It was disgusting. 

 

You only needed to get bread and milk, but if you walked up and down every aisle, looking at everything for sale, you might be able to kill an hour of time.  You examined every canned good for sale – Spam (gross), canned chicken (also gross), and tuna (acceptable only in dire circumstances).  You reached the end of the aisle and turned down the next one. Standing by the magazine rack was one of Yelina’s minions.  The skinny asshole with the stupid hair.  The one from English class.

 

He was flipping through the pages of one of those guy magazines that promised to teach hapless men how to drive women wild.  You rolled your eyes and kept investigating the aisle. Cleaning supplies.  You examined the different varieties of laundry detergent. 

 

You were halfway down the aisle (sniffing the dish soap now - lemon was definitely better than lavender) when the skinny asshole noticed you. 

 

“Hey,” he said, sounding surprised. 

 

You turned and faced him with all the dignity you could muster. “Hello.”

 

“You go to Xavier too,” he said.  He snapped the magazine shut and tried to stuff it behind a copy of “National Geographic.”

 

“I know,” you said.  You tried to make your voice sound so icy that it felt like a glacier to him. “You’re one of Yelina’s lackeys.”

 

He made a face and walked a few steps over to you.  “I’m not a lackey,” he protested.  “I’m her boyfriend.” 

 

You snorted at him and recapped the lemon dish soap.  You reached for the next variety (“Spring Morning”) and replied. “That sounds worse than lackey, honestly.”

 

His face turned a bit red but he didn’t reply, so you tilted your head high, shelved the soap, then stepped around him.  You grabbed a loaf of bread and a half gallon of milk, and as you paid, you looked back.  He was watching you, and the look on his face was indecipherable.

 

* * *

 

Rafael avoided you the next week.  He glanced at you when you walked into English one day, but you caught his look and narrowed your own eyes at him.  He had ducked his head until you were settled into your seat in the back.

 

Something about you made his stomach squirm.  He felt terrible that he had nearly fed into Yelina’s bullying, and he was grateful to Eddie for inadvertently cutting him off before he did. But there was something else to it. 

 

You seemed to see right through him when you looked at him with your Y/E/C eyes.  You didn’t seem to have any artifice to you.  With Yelina, he was always trying to read her – what she was planning, what she was thinking.  With you, he realized with a twist to his gut, he could see exactly what you were thinking. When you had looked at him in the bodega, you were thinking:  this guy doesn’t amount to much.

 

* * *

 

It was a brisk Saturday morning.  The morning sun hadn’t burned off the autumn chill yet, so St. James Park was mostly deserted.  You were sitting across the length of one of the benches in a shaft of weak sunlight, reading.  Your hands were hidden in the sleeves of your oversized hoodie.  There was a can of soda resting on the ground beside you, and you reached down every so often to take a sip. 

 

You had basically begged your mother to let you leave the house, and you suspected that she had relented so that she and your stepfather could have some adult time.  The thought made you want to barf.  You had promised to only walk to the park and back, no detours.  You had promised to just read your book.  You were about halfway through it – “Contact” by Carl Sagan – and you hoped you could finish it before you had to return to the apartment.

 

You were so engrossed in the story that you didn’t notice when someone else entered the park.  It wasn’t until they were close enough to block the sunlight that you looked up, startled.  You squinted against the person, backlit by the sun.  It was the skinny asshole.  Yelina’s boyfriend.

 

“Good morning, lackey,” you said, shielding your eyes and looking up at him.

 

He scowled at you.  “My name is Rafael.”

 

“Good morning, Rafael,” you replied.  You paused a moment.  “My name is Y/F/N.”

 

His scowl softened an iota.  “I know your name.”

 

There was an awkward silence as you sat and he stood.  Your eyes adjusted to the glare around him, and you noticed the fresh bruise on his cheek, a dark smudge of blue against his skin.  He saw you notice it, and he narrowed his eyes, probably expecting you to make a crack about it.  Instead, you tucked the dust jacket on your book to mark your place and swung your legs off the seat of the bench.

 

“Want to sit?” you asked.

 

He didn’t answer, but he sat down beside you, perched on the edge of the bench.  You gestured to the bruise.

 

“Looks like that hurts.”  He nodded and watched as you reached down for your can of soda.  “Here,” you said.  “It’s cold.” You held it out to him, but he wasn’t getting your meaning.  You hesitated, then pressed it gingerly against the bruise.  He winced, but he reached up and took it from you.  He kept it pressed to his cheek.  You watched him out of the corner of your eye.  He stared at the cracked pavement in front of him, not speaking. 

 

“Get into a fight over your queen bee?” you teased after a moment.

 

Rafael cleared his throat.  “My dad.” His voice was low. 

 

“Oh,” you replied.  You bit your lip and looked down at the book in your hands.  You felt him turn and look at you, but you didn’t meet his eyes. “My dad was like that too.”

 

You weren’t sure why you were telling him – not that you had any friends, but you didn’t tell anyone.  But the park was quiet, and the sun was dappling through the remaining leaves on the tree, making golden coins of light on the ground.

 

“ _Was_ like that?”  he asked.  “Not anymore?”

 

You shook your head.  “We left. My mom and I.”  You said it simply.  You kicked at a crack in the pavement with the scuffed toe of your sneaker. “Please don’t tell Yelina that,” you continued with a sigh.  “She doesn’t need any more ammo against me.”

 

Rafael took a deep breath beside you.  “I’m sorry about that.”

 

You shrugged.  “Doesn’t matter.  I don’t know what I did to her.”

 

“You’re new, is all.  You’re an easy target,” he replied.  “But I won’t tell her.”  He sighed, then handed you the can of soda back.  “Thanks for this.”  He stood up. He nodded at you, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, slouching as he walked away.

 

You watched him leave and then sat there for a long while before you settled back against the bench and continued reading.

 

* * *

 

Rafael was struggling.  His grades were stellar in every subject except calculus.  He didn’t understand:  he had been acing every test and mastering every concept until they started learning derivatives.  For whatever reason, he couldn’t grasp it.  It was the first time in his life that he faced a subject he couldn’t understand immediately or study his way to understanding.

 

His homework came back marked up with red ink.  And so did his quizzes.  He studied until late at night but still couldn’t get it.  His father alternated between mocking him and clapping him on the back and saying that the world always needed janitors, like him. 

 

His family was not rich by any standard – in fact, they were solidly lower middle-class.  He needed perfect grades if he had any chance of getting a scholarship to college, and he needed college to escape his father’s fate.  The last thing he wanted was to end up a too-smart janitor, bitter and angry at the world, punching his own wife and kids because he couldn’t punch the world.

 

He was walking to school one day with Eddie.  Alex was nowhere to be found, and Rafael assumed with a sinking heart that he might be walking with Yelina and her girlfriends.  He would deal with that later.  First, he had to ace calculus.

 

“You get tutored in math, right?” he asked his friend.  Eddie nodded.

 

“Yeah, but I’m in dummy math,” he said without rancor.  Rafael scoffed at him.

 

“You’re not dumb, Eddie.  Besides, I’m the one who’s about to fail.”

 

His friend turned to face him, slowing up as he walked.  “Really?”  Rafael nodded.  “You should see if Y/F/N can tutor you.  She’s good at helping me understand things.  I even got a B on my last test.”  He trailed off a minute, then added, “Y/F/N is the girl that Yelina is mean to, though.”

 

Rafael grimaced.  “Yeah, I know.”

 

Before the first bell for homeroom, Rafael scribbled a note on a piece of loose-leaf, then folded it many times before slipping it into the slot in your locker.

 

At the start of English class, when you walked past him, you dropped it back on his desk without looking at him.  He placed his hand over it, his face burning, as you made your way to your usual seat in the back.  Once the teacher started droning on about the newest book (“Billy Budd” by Herman Melville), Rafael unfolded the note.  It was the one he had written you, but you had added a phone number and address at the bottom.   _Any day except Wednesday_ , you had written underneath your contact information.  _And if this is a trick for your girlfriend, I’ll punch you in the dick._

 

He called you that night.  There were several moments of staticky silence on the line punctuated by hesitant talking as Rafael explained that it wasn’t a trick for Yelina and that he was close to failing calculus.  You and he worked out a schedule. 

 

Friday afternoon, after school, he found himself at the door of your apartment. You only lived two blocks away from him. He wondered why he never saw you walking home but then realized that he usually walked with Yelina.  You probably hung back or took another route to avoid them.

 

He wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his pants, then knocked.  He heard steps inside the apartment.  The door swung open, and you were standing there.

 

“C’mon in,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.  He walked into the apartment, and you locked and deadbolted the door behind him.  He looked you over – you were still in your school uniform, but you had shed your pullover and knee socks, and your feet were bare.  And your button down shirt was untucked.

 

He followed you further into the apartment and he sniffed the smells coming from the kitchen.  An older woman – you mom, he guessed – stuck her head out and greeted him with a warm smile and a wave.  

 

“We’re going in my room,” you told her, and the woman nodded at you. 

 

“Keep your door open,” she replied.  “No shenanigans.”

 

You ducked your head and mumbled something in response that he couldn’t make out, but he caught an embarrassed flush on the back of your neck as you led him down a narrow hallway.  He didn’t think it was possible, but his hands got even sweatier.  He’d never been in a girl’s bedroom before.  What would it be like?  He tried to imagine what it was like based on what he saw on the T.V. and in movies.  His mind raced with the possibilities.  A bed with one of those fabric coverings over the top?  Clothes all over the place?  What if he saw one of your bras lying on the floor?  He felt sweat prickle across his forehead, and he swiped it nervously with a sleeve.

 

It was disappointingly normal.  A regular bed covered in a deep purple comforter.  There was a worn stuffed bunny perched on the bed, watching him with its black button eyes.  A few posters hung on the wall – of a unicorn, a night sky with a quote on it, a sunset over a mountain.  A couple of framed pictures on your dresser beside a stack of library books.  The only thing on the floor was your scuffed loafers and your balled up knee socks.  No bras. Rafael was a little let down.

 

There was a desk set up under the window, and there were two chairs side by side.  You had already set out some paper and pencils.  You gestured for him to sit while you propped the door open with one of your loafers.  You caught him watching you. 

 

“It swings shut on its own,” you explained.  “It shut once on me and Eddie and mom thought we were making out.”  The thought of you and Eddie kissing made that familiar hornets’ nest of jealousy flare up in his chest, but he didn’t understand why.

 

“Which is funny,” you continued, walking over and joining him in the chair beside him.  “Because she’s always making out with my stepdad.”  You shook your head and pulled a disgusted face.  “It’s gross.”

 

“Yeah,” he lied.  “Kissing is gross.”  He opened his backpack and pulled out his calculus book and notebook.  He pulled out his homework assignment for the evening, and you took it from him gently, reading through the questions.  You picked up a pencil and tapped it against your teeth. 

 

You made him explain the last thing he understood, then started from there. Eddie was right:  you were good at illuminating tricky things so that he could understand them.  By the time he left that evening, he felt some hope that he might get a scholarship after all.

 

The only distraction?  When you were considering how to frame a concept to him, you bit the end of your pencil, deep in thought.  He doubted you were doing it intentionally, but in those moments, all he could think about was your mouth.  It didn’t look like you were wearing lip gloss like Yelina – your mouth wasn’t shiny or anything.  Your lips were just normal colored.  But the thought still flitted across his mind a few times.  What would it be like to kiss you?

 

He pushed the thought away.  He had a girlfriend.  But all the same, it didn’t stop his eyes from drifting to your mouth.  And wondering.

 

* * *

 

Your life hit a rhythm.  You had school during the week, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you left campus to go to Fordham.  Wednesday evenings, you went to karate.  Your stepdad had insisted that you learn to defend yourself so that your mother could one day let you leave the apartment.  And you had your tutoring. 

 

You didn’t get paid for your services, but Xavier’s headmaster had sat you down at the beginning of the school year and given you a homily on sharing one’s gifts with the wider world.  You had wanted to roll your eyes at him.  Once he got going, he was hard to stop.  But you figured it could look good on a college application.  Besides, you kind of liked it.  Maybe instead of being an astronomer, you’d be a professor when you grew up.

 

You tutored Eddie after school on Mondays and another girl every other Saturday morning.  And the skinny asshole on Friday afternoons.

 

You begrudgingly admitted that he wasn’t so bad.  Skinny, but maybe not an asshole.  Yes, his hair was atrocious – it was so gelled that you wondered if you could snap a piece off.  And yes, he was dating – or thought he was, at least – a monster in the form of a teenaged girl.  But he had started nodding hello at you when he saw you in the halls of the high school. And he was nice at your tutoring sessions, always thanking you and spending a moment to talk to your mom or stepdad when he came or went.  Once in a while he made a lame joke, and you would smile even if it wasn’t that funny.

 

You were working with him one afternoon on the quotient rule of differentiation.  He seemed more frustrated that usual, making simple mistakes on things he had already mastered.  He worked at one problem over and over, scrubbing his answer with his eraser until the paper tore.  Then he balled the entire piece up and threw it on the desk in exasperation.

 

You sat in silence for a moment, not sure what to do.  Sometimes Eddie got frustrated too, but you could just punch him in the arm lightly and make a dumb joke and he cheered right up.  Rafael’s frustration seemed deeper than that.

 

“Do you want to leave this until next week?” you asked.  “So you can go home early?”

 

Rafael’s hand was curled into a fist around his pencil, and you watched his jaw ripple as he clenched that too.  “I don’t want to go home,” he muttered under his breath, so low that you almost missed it.

 

You were quiet another moment.  “You can probably stay for dinner, if you want,” you said uncertainly. “My mom always makes too much.”

 

He turned and looked at you.  That was another thing that wasn’t so bad about Rafael – he had really nice green eyes.  You didn’t mind looking at them.  You felt your cheeks start to grow warm as he stared at you.

 

“Would that…be okay?” he replied.

 

You shrugged at him.  “Friday is spaghetti and meatball night.  Nothing fancy.”  He gave you a small smile, and you found yourself returning it with your own.

 

You asked your mom, then Rafael called his mom, and then you ended up setting another place at the kitchen table.  Rafael sat beside you, both of you across from your mom and stepdad. Both of whom were grinning at the two of you in a way that made you flush and drop your head, focusing on your plate while Rafael charmed them with his good manners.

 

* * *

 

Things were starting to look up in some ways.  Rafael was understanding calculus better, and some topics he didn’t even need help with.  But he kept going to your apartment anyway.  Sometimes he made mistakes on purpose, but sometimes he really did still need your help.

 

And it became a habit that he stayed for dinner a lot of evenings. Every other Friday could be tough: his father got paid every other Thursday, and he spent that night, drinking well into the next morning. This set the stage for trouble on Friday afternoon…and evening and night.  He was torn between the guilt of leaving his mother to fend for herself and the resentment he felt at needing to intervene.

 

Your family seemed normal.  Dinners with you were nice.  Your mom liked to tell embarrassing stories about you that made your face turn a deep scarlet while you chewed on your bottom lip.  Your stepdad was nice too – a cop in the Bronx who seemed to know everyone in the neighborhood. 

 

You were nice too.  Rafael found himself thinking about you more often.  He looked for you at school in the hallway; sometimes he saw you and tipped you a nod, but you usually kept your head down as you rushed from class to class. You still sat at the misfit table, plowing through a ridiculous number of books as the school year progressed. And when you stood up in English class to give a report, he still stared at your legs.

 

Things with Yelina were more complicated.  When Rafael was focused on his school work and not on her, suddenly she wanted nothing more than to spend time with him.  Once he was late to his tutoring appointment because Yelina had come up to him after school, threading her arm through his and pressing her breast against his side until he could barely think straight.  He ended up walking her home and had to sprint to your apartment afterwards.  But not before Yelina had pressed a kiss on his mouth, leaving his lips sticky and his groin uncomfortably tight with a flood of teenaged hormones. 

 

But the following Monday when he sought her out, she pretty much ignored him, flipping her long hair over her shoulder as she turned away from him. The funny thing was this:  when Yelina went to sit by Alex, giggling at something he said, the familiar feeling of jealousy didn’t nettled him like it usually did.

 

He was at the store, picking up some groceries for his abuelita.  She usually let him keep the change as payment, and he figured he could pick up some magazines for Yelina.  She liked those girl magazines, the ones with boy bands on the covers and articles about which prom dress to wear. 

 

When he turned to the magazine aisle, though, you were standing there, leafing through one of those girl magazines.  Your head was bent in concentration.  Rafael smiled.  He never would have pegged the girl who understood higher math to be so engrossed in something so…normal.

 

He watched you for a moment.  You were in jeans and snow boots.  Your winter coat was unbuttoned, and one of your pockets bulged from where you had stuffed your scarf.  Your hair was down and your cheeks were red from the cold outside.  You had your lower lip tucked between your teeth as you furrowed your brows at the magazine in your hands.  It was a habit he had noticed when you were concentrating on something.  When you did it at your tutoring sessions, sometimes all he could think about was kissing you and pulling you lower lip between his own teeth. 

 

“Hey,” he finally said, making you jump.  You blushed and tried to stuff the magazine back in the rack.

 

“Hey,” you replied.  You looked him in the eyes for a moment, then shifted your gaze to the basket in his hands.

 

“I was just getting some stuff for my abuela,” he said.  “I mean, my grandma.”

 

You snorted.  “I know Spanish.”

 

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow at you.  “Since when?”

 

“I take Spanish at school,” you replied.  You pointed at his basket.  “Jugo de naranja.  El pan.” You pointed at his shirt.  “Rojo.”

 

He smirked at you.  “Rojo,” he said, rolling the ‘r’ in an exaggerated manner.  “You sound like an American trying to speak Spanish.”

 

“I am an American trying to speak Spanish,” you informed him with an injured air.  “And I can’t roll my tongue on the r’s.”  You narrowed your eyes at him.  “So stop smirking at me.”

 

“Sorry.  It’s just nice to know you aren’t good at everything.”  You narrowed your eyes even more until they were just slits, glaring at him.  “If you need help, I can tutor you,” he continued.

 

You shoved your hands in your coat pockets.  “Thanks, but I don’t think you can teach someone how to change the way their tongue works.”  You pulled your scarf out of your pocket, winding it around your neck, then slipped gloves onto your hands.  “Have a good weekend, Rafael.”

 

He watched you leave, then he sat his basket down on the floor.  He pulled the magazine you had been reading from where you had hastily shoved it.  He leafed through it – photo spreads about eye makeup, a confessional about embarrassing things that had happened to readers.  An article about a boy band and what they liked in girls.  A quiz about how to tell if a guy liked you.  He wondered what you had been so occupied by.

 

* * *

 

You wished you had an older sister.  Or a girlfriend.  Or a fun, younger aunt.  Anyone you could talk to in confidence.

 

You could never talk to your mom.  The thought of even approaching such a conversation with her made your face burn.  You’d have to run away afterwards and start a new life in some other city under a new name. You gave her and your stepdad such a hard time about their canoodling around the apartment.  How could you broach the subject of having a crush on a guy?

 

You didn’t even know how it happened.  You tried to lay out the timeline, figure out the formula.  You were good at solving problems.  One skinny asshole with stupid hair plus numerous tutoring sessions meant what, exactly?  It meant that you thought about his stupid green eyes all the time.  It meant that you watched Yelina surreptitiously, trying to figure out why he liked her so much.  It meant that you bought a wand of glittery pink lip gloss. You tried it on in the bathroom one night, imagining what it would be like to kiss him before you felt stupid and wiped it off with a tissue.    

 

It meant that starting every Thursday, you felt a weird feeling in your stomach – kinda sick, like you wanted to barf, but kinda pleasant too – until he knocked on your apartment door.  Then the weird feeling in your stomach became a weird sort of jitteriness as you sat beside him, trying not to brush against him but sort of hoping he’d brush against you.

 

So you tried reading the ridiculous girl magazines.  Maybe they had some wisdom you hadn’t considered. 

 

Christmas break was fast approaching.  Maybe some time apart would cure you of your madness.  Because it definitely felt like madness to you. Aside from an infatuation on Han Solo that had led to a few confusing, embarrassing dreams, you’d never had a crush on a boy before.  Part of you was happy that you’d get a break from Rafael.  But part of you despaired to.  Two whole weeks away from him.  It would feel like an eternity.

 

* * *

 

Rafael had to think of a way to continue his tutoring sessions through Christmas break, and it was easier than he thought.  He told you that he wanted to sit for the AP calculus exam in the spring. You had bitten you lip for a moment, then nodded. 

 

It was that simple.

 

It had started a while ago, and at first, he thought it was just normal, teenaged boy hormones.  Like when he stared at your legs in English class.  Or when he sat just a bit closer to you a tutoring so that he could smell your shampoo.  Or when he saw the outline of your bra through your white school shirt and felt a little dizzy.  More and more, when he touched himself at night (his own private, shameful secret), he thought of you instead of Yelina.  And felt guilty about it.  When he went to confession, though, he kept the details vague.  But it didn’t stop him from imagining you.

 

But it wasn’t just being near you and thinking about kissing you.  He enjoyed his sessions with you and was tortured on the weekends, when he was the furthest away from your Friday afternoon meetings.  He liked how you helped people.  He liked that you were smart.  He liked how you never teased him for being stupid about math.  He liked that you didn’t bully other people or make him feel like a loser.  Like Yelina did.

 

Yelina broke up with him a week before break.  Rafael watched the disappointment flicker across her face when he didn’t really react.  He wondered if she had ever wanted to date him, or if he was just a toy to her.  His aunt had a cat that batted around a felt mouse all the time.  Sometimes Rafael had felt like that with Yelina. 

 

When he saw Yelina kissing Alex before homeroom, he didn’t even feel anything.

 

He went to your apartment like normal.  Christmas was about five days away, and you were alone when you opened the door to let him in. 

 

“Mom’s out shopping,” you said.  Your voice sounded oddly flat, and when he looked at you closer, he thought your eyes looked red-rimmed.  You walked into the living room to turn of the T.V., then led him back to your room. You propped open the door and settled in beside him to start working through the AP exam guide.

 

“Let’s start with limits and continuity,” you said.  You flipped to that section in the booklet.  “You’re good at those so we can just review.” You sniffed and swiped at your eyes with the heel of your hand.

 

“You okay?” he asked.  You shrugged, so he teased you.  “Get into a fight with a queen bee?”

 

You gave him a laugh without mirth.  “Carl Sagan died.”

 

He shifted in his seat to face you.  “Was he your grandpa?”  He thought about it, then added, “or your uncle?”

 

You laughed again, this time with more humor behind it.  “I wish.  He was an astrophysicist.  He was a writer.”  You voice trembled.  “The Voyager record.  Searched for alien life.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Rafael said, remembering.  “The guy from ‘Cosmos.’  We watched that in science in junior high.”

 

You nodded but didn’t reply.  He watched helplessly as your eyes filled with tears and spilled over your lower lashes.

 

“Sorry,” you cried.  “It’s so stupid.”

 

He hesitated, then patted you uneasily on your shoulder.  “It’s okay.”  What was he supposed to do?  Should he hug you?  Get you a Kleenex?  Leave so that you can be alone?  He settled for awkward pats to your shoulder and just sat in silence while you cried. Eventually your tears tapered off, and you smiled at him sheepishly.

 

“Sorry,” you said again.  Your eyes were definitely bloodshot now, and your eyelids were swollen.  Before he could even stop himself, he leaned in and kissed you, pressing his lips against yours. 

 

Your lips were impossibly soft.  He kept his hand on your shoulder, and he felt you stiffen as he kissed you. You gave a little squeal of surprise, and he opened his eyes to see you staring at him in disbelief.  He pulled away, the blood pounding in his ears.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.  “I should go.”  He made to gather up his study materials, but you laid a shaky hand on the sleeve of his sweater.

 

“It’s okay,” you said.  “You just surprised me.”  You glanced at him but shifted your eyes away quickly.  “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

 

He thought about how to reply, but then you pulled your lower lip into your mouth.  He leaned in and kissed you again.  You stiffened under his hand again but then relaxed a little.  And you kissed him back, tilting your head just a little. He watched as you closed your eyes, so he closed his too.  He felt your hand as you reached up to lay it on his arm, trembling just a little.

 

You broke away, a little breathless.  The two of you alternated between looking at each other and then looking away, a little self-conscious.  He kept waiting for you to tell him that he sucked at kissing, but you didn’t.  Instead, you just ducked your head and smiled a little.

 

“I’m sorry I cried,” you finally said, your voice soft.

 

Rafael smiled at you.  He felt the sudden urge to reach out and grab the loose strand of hair that had escaped your braid, so he did.  He wound it around his finger, then tugged it very gently so it didn’t hurt you.  “I’m sorry I surprised you.”

 

You smiled back.  “It was a nice surprise.”

 

The next week, he came over to study and then stayed for dinner.  He asked your mom and stepdad if he could take you out for a date the next day.

 

“Not a _date_ date,” he stammered.  “Just something to say ‘thanks’ for all the help with math.”  
  


“I don’t know,” you mom said, uncertain.  “I’m not comfortable with her going too far from the apartment.”

 

“Now,” your stepdad broke in, holding up a hand.  “Rafael’s lived in the city his whole life.  And Y/F/N is smart.  And,” he added, grinning widely at you, “she’s – what, now – a blue belt?  Anyone tries to tangle with her or her boyfriend, she can roundhouse kick them in the face.”

 

Both your face and Rafael’s turned bright red, but your mom finally relented.  “Thanks, Mr. Becker,” Rafael said.  “I’ll make sure nothing bad happens.”

 

“You better,” your stepdad replied.  His face grew stern.  “Because if anything happens to her, just remember that I know where to hide bodies so that no one ever finds them.”

 

* * *

 

Rafael picked you up early.  Which was good, because it didn’t give you a lot of time to worry about what to wear. He didn’t tell you where you were going – he just told you to wear comfortable shoes.  And to bring your student ID. 

 

In the end, you settled on your regular jeans and sneakers, and a nice sweater that brought out your eyes.  He had said himself that it wasn’t a _date_ date, after all.  Your mom stuffed a twenty dollar bill into your pocket as well as a list of phone numbers, like you didn’t remember how to call your own apartment. 

 

“Where are we going?” you asked.  Once you were out of sight of the apartment (both you mom and stepdad didn’t even hide the fact that they were watching you from the window), Rafael reached down and took your hand.  You were too stunned to pull it away.  What if Yelina was around and saw you with her boyfriend?

 

“It’s a surprise,” he said.  He helped you navigate the subway turnstiles, leading you into Manhattan.  You changed lines and found two seats together.  He still had a hold of your hand, but you were both wearing gloves so it didn’t make you too nervous.

 

You weren’t sure what was happening.  You thought about your kiss with him all through the week.  And the week dragged.  You were distracted at Christmas dinner with your new step-grandparents in Queens, and you were distracted while you unwrapped your gifts. You found yourself sighing and blushing like some idiot out of a romance novel, and when you caught yourself, you scowled.  It was _definitely_ like madness. 

 

You had never been kissed before, but you were never really interested. It seemed so gross – until Rafael had leaned in and placed his lips on yours.  Then you started to think maybe it wasn’t all gross.  It had been nice, actually.  He didn’t try to French kiss you – the thought of another person’s _tongue_ in your mouth made you gag – but you could kind of taste the mint on his breath anyway.  At some point in your tutoring, you had noticed that his breath was minty. You just figured he was being polite – Eddie’s breath usually reeked like Doritos.  But you wondered if he had wanted to kiss you.

 

You even had a dream about Rafael one night, a lot like the one you had about Han Solo.  You woke up feeling anxious, your stomach squirming only a little unpleasantly. That morning, you practiced speed kicking in the living room until you knocked over a lamp, making your mom yell at you for doing karate in the apartment.

 

The subway pulled into the next stop, and Rafael stood up and tugged you to the exit.  You took the steps to the street level, and Rafael dropped your hand to sweep his arms in a ‘ta-da’ movement.

 

“The American Museum of Natural History,” he said, obviously proud. “Free for students, almost empty between Christmas and New Year’s.”  The smile on his face faltered a little, like he was expecting you to laugh at him.

 

“It’s great,” you said, grinning at him.  “What do you want to see?”

 

“Eh,” he replied with a shrug.  “I’ve been here a million times.  Let’s go wherever you want.  They have a section with diamonds and stuff, and stuffed animals.”  He took your gloved hand in his again and pulled you towards the entrance.  “ _And_ they have a planetarium.”  You paused in your steps, and he turned to look back at you. “I thought you’d like it.  Since you were sad about the guy who died.”

 

You could only smile back at him and resume following him. 

 

He was quiet as you walked through the bird exhibits, and then the amphibians and reptiles.  You both shed your winter wear, and when he took your hand again, you felt a fluttering in your stomach. 

 

He didn’t talk until you were in the earth and planetary science halls. He cleared his throat beside you while you read about a meteorite strike in France in 1803.

 

“I was wondering if you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he asked.  You could feel his hand sweating in yours. You kept your eyes on the text in front of you.  Apparently French officials had witnessed the meteorite strike, establishing that rocks could fall from the sky.  You took a deep breath, not looking at him, and responded.

 

“I thought you already had a girlfriend.”  You tried to keep your voice level. 

 

“No,” he replied. 

 

Your heart was hammering in your chest.  You glanced up at him, and he was staring at you with those green eyes that weren’t completely terrible.  Oh, who were you kidding?  You loved his stupid green eyes.  And his stupid face.  And even his stupid hair. 

 

“Why me?” you asked.

 

“Because you’re nice and smart,” he said, serious.  “You’re funny.  And I think you’re cute too.”  He smirked a bit.  “And if anyone starts anything, you can roundhouse kick them for me.  And I’d like to keep getting that free tutoring.”

 

You dropped his hand and punched him in the arm with a grin.  “You’re already not paying me for that,” you replied. “But I guess I’ll be your girlfriend.”

 

“So you like me too?” he asked.  He looked nervous, like he might not like your answer.

 

You sighed.  “I do,” you admitted.

 

Rafael looked around the exhibition hall, which was quite empty other than the two of you.  He gripped your hand a little tighter in his own, slippery with sweat, and leaned in to kiss you for a moment.  He broke away, his face red, then started to pull you towards the exit. 

 

“Come on,” he said.  “There’s a show starting in the planetarium in twenty minutes.  You’re gonna love it.”

 

There was only a handful of people in the planetarium, but Rafael pulled you towards the last row.  You settled in and looked over at him.  He was looking at you with a strange look on his face that made you blush.  You were happy to be his girlfriend, but it opened up a whole new world of issues.  Your mom, for example, was never going to let you live it down.  And what if his mom didn’t like you?  What would happen when you both graduated from high school? Your mind reeled with an infinite number of questions.

 

Rafael reached out again and took your hand.  You looked at him again and this time, he was smiling at you.  He seemed to sense your nervousness.  His hand was less sweaty, though, so he seemed calmer himself.

 

The domed ceiling of the planetarium darkened and the room was eventually plunged into near darkness.  Canned music played over speakers throughout the room and a narrator introduced you to the show, _Folklore and Facts about the Cosmos_.  Rafael squeezed your hand and you squeezed back.

 

You were quickly lost in the show, stunned by the stars and constellations projected above you.  You jumped slightly when Rafael shifted in his seat and whispered in your ear, his breath tickling you.

 

“Is this okay?” he asked, barely audible over the thundering bass of the music that accompanied the narrator.

 

You turned your head to face him.  “It is,” you murmured, but before you could add more, he leaned forward and kissed you.  You shifted in your seat to face him.  It still made your stomach flutter when he kissed you, but you were getting better at it. At least, you thought so.  He didn’t seem to mind.

 

You felt him lay his other hand on the side of your face, tentative at first. Then he cupped your cheek with his warm hand, and you leaned into his touch a bit.  You reached your own hand up to his head, but his hair felt too crunchy from all the gel, so you settled for laying your palm on the back of his neck, right above the collar of his shirt.

 

You felt him part his lips against yours just a fraction, and then you felt the tip of his tongue against your lower lip, gently prodding you.  You took a breath through your nose and parted your lips, allowing him to plunge his tongue into your mouth.  To your surprise, you didn’t gag at all.  Not with Rafael.  In fact, you pushed your own tongue back against his, the two of you making out until an exasperated woman several rows up turned around and shushed you in the most judgmental shushing you had ever heard in your life.

 

You could feel Rafael’s lips smiling against yours. “Shh,” he added in a whisper after he broke away from you.  “Don’t be so rude.”  You smacked him in the arm, then settled back in your seat to watch the show.  You felt his eyes on you in the dim emergency lighting, then he settled back as well.  He reached back out and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. 

 

Under the simulated night sky, his hand twined with yours and the taste of his mouth still in yours, all the questions you had earlier fell away. Somehow, deep in your gut, past the squirmy feeling that you got when you kissed him, you knew that you were exactly where you belonged.  With exactly the person you belonged with.


End file.
